


Those Who Wait

by TrulyCertain



Series: I like big plots and I cannot lie (Kink Meme prompts) [5]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Pre-Blight, Time Travel, also post-Blight, it's both with this premise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 57,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you’d asked Alistair what he wanted  – not that many people ever did – he’d have said, oh, you know, the usual. Eternal rest. The Fade, Maker’s side, all that sort of thing. He wanted to go out like a hero, protecting the woman he loved.</p><p>Of course, that depends on actually "going out" in the first place, not just waking up in the Cousland grounds feeling like an ogre’s trampled on your head. And not having the woman you love right next to you, not even knowing your name, because you haven’t met yet.</p><p>Written for a prompt on the k!meme: "Alistair gets to do over."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 seemed to lose this (I have no idea how or why), so here it is, restored and re-posted. Thank God for Word backups. Very sorry about the loss of comments and kudos.

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_  
_But I have promises to keep,_  
_And miles to go before I sleep,_  
_And miles to go before I sleep._

**_~ Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening - Robert Frost_**

 

 

_You know, for all the other Wardens talked about this moment, they never told me the light would be quite so..._ bright.

* * *

Patience wakes with a jolt, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her room is dark, peaceful as ever, but the feeling of unease doesn't leave her. She drags a hand through unruly, dark brown hair, huffing out a sigh. Her eyes ache from lack of sleep, and there's a yawn building at the back of her throat, just waiting to escape; she should be asleep, her body knows that, but she can't relax. 

The remnants of the dream are still haunting her: she knows it was a nightmare, but about what, she couldn't tell you if she wanted to. She has the feeling she should be glad she doesn't remember.  
  
She's standing, tying her hair, pulling on clothes and boots and leathers before she quite realizes what's happening, and her feet, as restless as her mind, are taking her through the floors of the castle. Past the snores of her family - past stone wall after stone wall, brick by brick and step by step - she passes through her home. She hears a servant humming, considers looking for the source of the tune, but the sun hasn't risen yet - few people want to be disturbed at this time of night.  
  
She uses the small door - the servants' entrance - past the kitchens, where the guards on duty won't stop her and ask what the Cousland daughter is doing. (That's what she is, always. Fergus was "the young master Cousland" and is now "the Cousland heir". She was and is the "spitfire" to Father, "the Cousland daughter" to everyone else. Coddled, protected, the spare heir... the Cousland daughter.)   
  
She reaches the bottom of the steps, inhaling the air; it's a quiet, clear night - the air is sharp, smells good, and the stars are out. Her daggers are at her hips - she must have strapped them there at some point, she doesn't quite remember - and they clank as she begins to run. It's just grass, open grounds, nothing to stop her. Perhaps she meant to train, work off her nervous energy, but the training grounds are far to the east and now she's simply running, glad to be free of constricting bedsheets and sweaty limbs. She can  _breathe_ , and by Andraste, it feels good. She's a little aware that the smile on her face must look Fade-touched, but doesn't think she cares; the dream is fading by the second, and she's no longer paralyzed by the feeling that there's something hugely important that she's forgotten. Freedom returns, and it surprises her.

The hunting woods are ahead, and she enters the shade of the trees at a sprint, jumping over the bumpy ground that marks the beginning of the woodland path; years of playing here, hunting here, and she knows the grounds as well as the castle. All her childhood memories are here, the well-worn paths where grass once was testament to long afternoons wasted in Fergus' shadow - jumping and climbing and fighting and trying her utmost not to be the Cousland daughter.  
  
She slows, sucking in a breath at the sound of footsteps a few feet ahead of her, her run turning into a walk and then a creep. Heavy foliage blocks her view of the woods ahead - her woods, the woods she should know like the back of her hand, that someone else has found their way into.   
  
She advances, praying whoever it is hasn't heard her crashing through the woods like a fool. She hears the sound of cloth shifting - movement, someone trying to be as quiet as her; she sees the light change behind the leaves, too, almost matching the sounds. She hears the steps shift, but not moving towards her: the someone is circling the leaves, wondering how to approach. She draws her daggers, and hears the footsteps stop, the sound of the steel obviously having been noticed, and then start again, almost as if the intruder is trying to pretend nothing has happened. She smiles, twisted and a little bitter, and plays the game. She circles, listening to their movements all but correspond with her own, and then, using the element of surprise, lunges. She ignores the leaves, and then she is on him - and it's definitely a  _him_ , he's as heavy as his footsteps were - and scrabbling for purchase.   
  
It ends up with him on the ground, her knee on his stomach and her dagger at his throat. Wide hazel eyes stare at her, the stranger audibly swallowing.  
  
She leans down and snarls, "Who sent you?"  
  
He's still watching her as if he can't quite believe she's real. " _Patience?_ "


	2. The Prophet

_She wants to do it herself; we've talked about this a hundred times. I've told her: not while I breathe.  
_

* * *

Her name startles her, and he takes advantage of that; he shoves her dagger away, his tight grip on her other wrist making her drop the second blade, and then flips them over, pinning her to the ground.  
  
 _Maker_ , he's strong. She tries to fight him, wriggle away, but can't even raise her legs to kick out, her arms useless.  
  
He cocks his head, making no move to hurt her, seeming more... confused than anything. "Patience?"  
  
"There was an attempt on my father the last time we were in Denerim. The Cousland name means you aren't just here to _visit_."  
  
"An attempt?" he echoes, and then finally seems to understand - he lets go of her, getting to his feet and raising his hands, showing his palms. "Hang on. I'm not here to... do I look like a Crow?"  
  
That makes her recover from her shock, scrabbling for her daggers and taking a second - it feels like an hour, like she's losing valuable time - to find them. She's up on her feet, daggers ready and stance firm, before she has time to think too much about his surprise. "Who are they?" she demands. "Are  _they_  who sent you?"  
  
He drops his hands and stands, unmoving, as if waiting for her to act. "You... you honestly don't remember?" Pain, new and sudden, crosses his face; he exhales heavily, raises a hand to scrape through his hair. "I thought you'd..." He frowns at the ground in a way that allows her to all but hear the thoughts ticking in his head, ideas settling into place; she should probably take the opportunity to strike, to kill him or at the very least get him in a disadvantageous position again, but he's made no move to harm her. "I'm..." He sighs, raises his head and meets her eye. "I'm a friend. You probably don't remember, it was a long time ago and we were both... different."  
  
It would explain why he knows her name, at least, if he hasn't been briefed on it by an employer; and he doesn't exactly seem the stealthy type, more like one of her father's men, all muscle and an aura of purpose. "And why should I trust you?"  
  
He lets out a short, harsh almost-laugh, glancing down at himself. "Because I'm unarmed - though I have no idea why – and _surrendering?_  Not exactly the most menacing person in the world right now, I can assure you."  
  
She looks him over; he's clad in the simple clothing of Highever people - no embroidery, dyes or silk, just wool. He could have hidden daggers or knives tucked away, but he honestly doesn't seem the type. "It would seem you are. Why are you _here?_ "  
  
He looks at her with a sheepish grin. "Long story, that. I sort of... woke up here." He looks over his shoulder, seeming agitated. "And I still don't know where my armour and sword are."  
  
"Don't you know how you got here?" she asks, and he shakes his head.  
  
"Last I knew I was killing the dragon, and then..." Something seems to occur to him. "Your father's still alive?" She sidesteps the whole dragon-killing _- dragon-killing?_  - issue and focuses on the mention of her father. She doesn't like the fact that this stranger seems surprised he's alive. "But Howe killed..." He visibly catches himself.  
  
She steps forwards before he can finish. "Howe _what?_ "  
  
"Patience, where are we?"  
  
"Howe did  _what?_ " she asks again, because she isn't letting that slip go - it sounded almost as if he was saying that Howe... _no_. He's a family friend, practically an uncle.  
  
"It doesn't  _matter_ , not yet." He scrubs his hand over his forehead, seeming desperate. "Where  _are_  we? You're acting like you know."  
  
If it's the only way to get a straight answer... "Castle Cousland," she says as if it's obvious, because it  _is_. "I mean, the grounds, the castle grounds."

He sucks in a breath, turns in a frustrated, pointless circle; frowns at the ground as if trying to think, that hand coming up to dishevel his hair even further. "And Fergus? Oren? Your mother? They're still alive?" He stops, his stare beseeching her to give an answer.  
  
"Of course they're - "  
  
"Oh, Maker." He drops his face into his palms and mutters something that sounds distinctly like, "Yes, because death would have been too  _simple_ , wouldn't it?"  
  
She frowns at that, but he seems to be panicking, and all she can think of is that bitten-off sentence. "Howe killed _who?_  I'm tempted to take you to him and get a  _straight bloody answer_."  
  
He looks up, his face stricken, at that. "He's  _here?_ "  
  
She shakes her head. "En route. He's coming so we can combine forces..."  
  
"... to go to Ostagar," he finishes for her, the words barely a breath. She wonders how he knows. A soldier? One of Howe's men? "When does he - ?"  
  
"We were told to expect him on the morrow," she answers.  
  
He calms slightly. "Then there's still time." He looks over her shoulder, at the path she ran down. "The castle's this way?" At her nod, he adds, "I need to see your parents."  
  
The familiarity of it strikes her. Not the _teyrn and teyrna_ ; not the _Couslands_ ;  _your parents_. Direct, informal, as if he knows her - but then, he says he  _does_. "Why?" What's so important that this madman with leaves in his hair and an apparent history of killing dragons - dragons that are already _extinct_ \- needs to disturb Mother and Father?  
  
He seems to debate with himself before finally saying, "Howe is a traitor." It's a sigh, as if he's releasing half of himself along with the words.   
  
He moves as if to walk past her, but she stands firm. "That's quite the accusation to make."   
  
"Look..." He swallows. "D... A Grey Warden comes to visit your father. Howe'll arrive at the castle, and he'll say his men are late, I don't know why, he probably had some excuse..." A shaky exhale. "Fergus gets sent on ahead with your troops, and Howe's... They come when you're defenceless, the men are already gone..." He seems to choke on the words.  
  
Howe is a traitor, she remembers him saying, and thinks she knows what he means.  
  
"Your family... they all die." His eyes are pleading with her, willing her to say something - show she believes him - but she's frozen to the spot. She doesn't react when he takes her hand, gently, as if he's afraid of hurting her; there is infinite concern in his eyes. "Patience, I'm so sorry."  
  
The sound of her name snaps her out of her trance, and she snatches her hand away, angered by his presumption. "How can you...?" The words are more of a whisper, as if her throat refuses to work properly.  
  
Something strange happens in his face, what could almost be a wince, and then he's stepping gently past her, walking towards the castle. Odd as this man may seem, there is strength in his strides, the awkwardness of before gone now he has a mission.  
  
"How can you say that?!" she cries after him. "You're insane! How could you even  _know - ?!_ "  
  
He looks back. "Because you  _told_  me."

No-one can fault her for her speed. She catches up with him, grabs his arm and demands, "When? How? I don't even _know..."_  
  
"Not yet," he interrupts through gritted teeth, beginning to walk on. He looks to his side and sees her wide eyes at what he's suggesting. He glances to the sky as if seeking guidance, and then attempts to explain. "Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I shouldn't even  _be_  here. We did all this, I've  _seen_  it happen."  
  
"Why should I believe you?" she asks as they reach the treeline, breaking through into the open grounds, the castle not far ahead of them.   
  
He pauses, seeming to consider her question, then answers, "Maybe you shouldn't, I don't know. But there was nothing I could  _do_ , and I have to  _try_..."  
  
"You're insane," she murmurs again, shaking her head. "There," she says, gesturing to the kitchen entrance up ahead, guiding him before she's fully conscious of it and wondering why.  
  
He nods in thanks. "Look," he says in exasperation, "let me speak to your parents. Howe arrives tomorrow - let him arrive, see if I'm right about his army, about the Warden. Then we can talk about whether I'm losing my marbles. Deal?"  
  
"They won't be glad I woke them for a lunatic. Fine."  
  
Relieved, he grins at her - it suits him; it's bright, infectious, and she suddenly realizes that he can't be much older than her. "Right then. Time to sort this out." They reach the steps leading to the kitchen door, and he stops, waves a hand to them. "Lead the way, milady."


	3. Tip of the Tongue

_So_  that’s  _it. Another cheery little secret they don’t tell you when you’re conscripted. That’s why it’s always a Warden who kills the Archdemon in the history books._

_I don’t want..._

_I thought I had... more, if you know what I mean. More to do, more to see. More to give. But I can give her this. If one of us is coming out of this alive, it won’t be me._

* * *

The door of the master bedroom opens after only a couple of knocks. It’s almost amusing to see her father’s hair so dishevelled, his eyes squinting and heavy with sleep. “Pup?” He looks past her, seeing the stranger a few feet behind her – the madman is looking at tapestries on the wall, carefully not watching them, and she’s glad he’s allowing her this small moment of privacy. “Who - ?”  
  
She feels more than a little guilty waking her father up for this, but she pushes it aside to tell him, “This man” – and the man in question turns at that, no longer even pretending to be unaware of the situation - “says that he has evidence that Howe is a traitor.” She attempts to convey all her scepticism about that in a look, hoping she succeeds somewhat. “He... insisted upon seeing you and Mother. It can probably wait until the morning.” She  _feels_ rather than sees the glare that the man behind her directs at her back.   
  
Her father's stance changes instantly, something tensing in his shoulders - he's putting away "Bryce" and moving to become "the Teyrn" to deal with formal matters. “Are you certain?” he asks, looking past her – the question is addressed over her shoulder, to the one demanding such a meeting.  
  
She hears the madman stride forward, stopping a little less than a foot away from her. “I’m afraid I am, Teyrn Cousland,” he says, and now his tone is all formality. Well, look at that.  
  
There’s a moment of thought – Father considers the man’s words, seems to assess him with his gaze – then he answers, “I see. Patience, escort our guest downstairs, if you would.” She nods, the door closes, and she turns to do so.   
  
Her step stutters when she sees the look on her companion’s face; he’s staring at the door, something she can’t name in his eyes. “Are you all right?” she says, and he seems to shake himself out of his trance; his gaze falls to her, and he shakes his head.  
  
“Never mind,” he says, the word coming out as more of a sigh, and moves to let her lead him down the corridor. “I just... your family. It's strange to see you with them.”  
  
She starts walking, lets him fall into step with her. “You...” She realizes then what he means. He said that she told him, not that he saw it himself. “You met me after it happened?” She still can’t bring herself to think too hard about what “it” means – his prophecy may not be true, but the thought of it still makes her shudder.  
  
“Yes.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, as though the thought is equally as uncomfortable for him to contemplate. “Can we talk about this later?” She knows from his hushed, terse tone that there won’t be a later if he can help it, and there is a long silence as they walk down the corridor.  
  
"What of your own family?"  
  
The silence doesn't end, and something in his posture tenses as he seems to be working out how best to answer the question. "Ah." His eyes are focused on the corridor ahead. "I'm a bastard, and my father wasn't exactly quick to acknowledge me. My mother... died. In childbirth." His hand falls to his neck as if searching for something, the motion obviously instinctual, and he glances down in surprise as he doesn't find it. His fingers brush a simple string, but it seems not to be what he's looking for. "Damn. I guess it's still in Redcliffe. And that is  _far_ too long a story to even start right now," he adds when he looks up and sees her curious expression, pointing at her as if to reprimand her.  
  
"I'm sorry." She's surprised at herself for meaning it. "I'm... not the best at this kind of thing, but I really am sorry."  
  
He gives her a gentle, unfamiliar smile, far too much of what he's thinking contained in his eyes. "I know. That was what you said at the time. Back then, the lack of family was something we had in common."

She's silent, mulling that over, but finds herself wanting to talk to him. He's interesting, this man, odd as he is. Perhaps if they'd met in better circumstances, she'd like him. He seems well-intentioned enough. He says he was her friend, and she can see a glimpse of why.  
  
“How did we meet?” she asks suddenly, unable to help herself.  
  
He looks at her, and the hint of a smile creeps onto his face. “I’m not sure I made the best impression. You caught me having an argument with a mage.” He glances away from her, at a wall. “I probably made myself look like a bit of a prat, but you seemed to find it all very amusing. It was the first time I saw you smile.” He, too, smiles, meeting her eye; but it's bittersweet, something tender in it, sad as it is soft. Then his eyes drift away from hers as if he's said too much, and he clears his throat. “But if you mean in a wider sense...” At her nod, he continues, “We fought together for a while. It’s complicated.”  
  
She should probably push further - this man is in her home, after all, telling her that her entire family are about to die, and is... from the future or some insane prophet, she doesn't know, and something is too  _complicated_  to explain? - but doesn't. Perhaps it's the fact that she suddenly feels very tired. Perhaps it's the fact that she already feels as though she's pried far too much (and damn her busy mind, she's still wondering what's apparently in Redcliffe, even though it probably doesn't matter at all). So they walk on, and he keeps in step with her as if it's something he's been doing all his life.  
  
Stairs, more stairs, and then they reach the main entrance hall, where they always greet guests. He looks around, at the impressive stone fireplace, at the high ceilings, and she watches him take it all. He lets out a long, impressed whistle. "Quite the home you have here."  
  
She's unsure whether to smile or be ashamed at the compliment; educated as he sounds, he's also an unacknowledged bastard, and hardly the most diplomatic person she's ever met - probably not a man who's used to the finer things in life. She wonders whether he thinks she's prissy, unappreciative, the pampered little Cousland daughter. So she admits, "It's beautiful. I've always thought so."  
  
Her parents arrive then - sweeping in wearing finery and tense expressions, a far more appropriate image of Ferelden's most powerful Teyrn and Teyrna. "You mentioned the Arl of Amaranthine?" her father asks.  
  
Patience stands beside the stranger, silent as he explains what he supposedly knows once again, and thinks that it doesn't sound any saner. Her parents, while not as vocal, seem as unconvinced as she was, and he offers the same deal. "Please. At least consider it. Maybe we can stop it, if we're aware of what's happening."  
  
Her mother looks at him, a long, assessing gaze. "Can you offer any proof of all this?"  
  
He shakes his head. "I wish I could."

"Then we'll have to take your word for it. You seem honest, but whether you're right is an entirely different matter."  
  
Father steps in then, with, "What's your name, lad?"  
  
"Alistair, ser," the stranger offers, with a bow of the head and the slightest glance at Patience, as if waiting for a reaction. The name rings a bell, though she still doesn't remember the things he's talked about...  
  
Father watches him for several long moments, a frown on his face, before he says, "I thought I knew you. Would you be Eamon's charge?"  
  
Oh. That's it, then. She's heard the Arl talk about him a couple of times when he was visiting from Redcliffe, but she was very young at the time and the memories are vague.  
  
Alistair seems surprised. "You remembered?" he blurts out, before coughing and bowing his head again. "Uh, I mean, yes. I... was." Something bitter creeps into his tone at that, and Patience senses unpleasant memories.  
  
"He would bring you here occasionally," her father says. "I always wondered what happened to you."  
  
He smiles and replies with a sheepish shrug, "I became an insane wandering prophet?" The line would be horrifically impertinent from anyone else, but Patience has seen enough of this "Alistair" to expect nothing less; she just hopes her parents are forgiving.   
  
Her father tries not to smile, shaking his head a little, and asks, "Have you anywhere to stay?"  
  
Alistair grimaces. "The nearest place would be in Denerim."  
  
Father seems to think this over, and then replies, "We can afford to let you stay for a night."  
  
"Bryce..." Mother starts, but he shakes his head.  
  
"Eleanor, allow me this. If he's so adamant, let him see whether his" - he regards Alistair with hard eyes - "vision comes to pass."  
  
"I suppose we can spare the space," Mother sighs, and Father gives her a smile.  
  
There is a noise, a rustle of cloth, and a servant wanders in, probably having heard their voices. "Will we be having guests, Teyrn Cousland?"  
  
"Yes, we will," Father replies. "If you would prepare a room?"  
  
The servant nods, and approaches Alistair. "Follow me, ser."  
  
He still seems a little surprised, but then recovers. "Oh. Er, of course." He begins to do as he's bid, but he looks back. "Thank you," he tells Patience's parents earnestly, and they nod in acknowledgement.   
  
Then he's gone - and Maker, on the way out of the room Patience swears she hears him asking the servant if there's anything he can help her with; definitely someone not used to riches - and her parents are looking at her.  
  
"I couldn't simply leave him there," she attempts. "Or... kill him."  
  
Father puts a hand on her shoulder. "I know, Patience. You did what you could."  
  
She smiles at that, glad of his pardon, and decides that she, too, should probably be retiring for the night. She bids them goodnight, climbing up the stairs and making her way through the corridor, when the sound of something being knocked over and a bitten-off curse from inside one of the rooms makes her pause.

* * *

If you asked Alistair what he wanted before all this – not that many people ever did – he’d have said, oh, you know, the usual. Eternal rest. The Fade, Maker’s side, all that sort of thing. He wanted to go out like a hero, protecting the woman he loved.

Of course, that depends on actually  _going out in the first place_ , not just waking up in the Cousland grounds feeling like an ogre’s trampled on your head. And not having the woman you love right next to you, not even knowing your name, because you haven’t even  _met_  yet.  
  
Or fumbling through a meeting with her dead parents, then knocking over a candelabra because you can't even  _light_ things properly now. (That's always been one of the things he can do, always; the amount the Revered Mothers and brothers made him light the Maker-knew-how-many candles in the Chantry, you'd think he had nothing better to do.)  
  
He loves her. (He only told her twice. Maker, he was a fool.) And now she thinks he's just some insane wanderer; even the mention of his name gains no reaction from her. She doesn't even remember him, and his mind is still stuck months in the future, a lovestruck fool ready to die for her.  
  
Great, he thinks, his head in his hands. He can't exactly go up to her and say, "Oh, by the way, we were Grey Wardens, your family and my adoptive family were slaughtered, you were my first and I love you so much it physically hurts. That and I sort of... died. To save you. Have a nice day."  
She can barely get to grips with this, the first few days before it all happened; it isn't fair to... Well, actually, none of this is fair. The thought drags a harsh, humourless laugh from him, higher and a little crazier than he's entirely comfortable with.  
  
He jumps at a small knock on the door. "Alistair?" Patience asks, her voice as tentative as her hand. "Are you... decent?"  
  
He gives a small huff of a laugh at that; it's been a long time since she's had to ask. It's only when he hears her small, surprised intake of breath that he realizes that he's said it aloud, and wants to kick himself. Well, at least  _that_ feeling's familiar. He raises his head. "Sorry, ignore that. Yes, I am. Something you needed?"  
  
The door slowly creaks open, and she sticks her head in. "I just wanted to see if you were all right. I heard something fall..." She catches sight of the candelabra on the floor.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says hastily. "I was just about to rectify things..."  
  
She shakes her head, gives him a smile. "Don't worry about it. Fergus abused that thing more than you ever will."  
  
Fergus. The dead brother who isn't quite so dead. And her parents, and Oriana, and her nephew... She has so much to lose, and she doesn't even  _know_  it. He smiles. "Really?"  
  
She nods, her eyes farther away than he'll ever understand, and seems to enter the room and shut the door without even realizing it. "Once, I was being the dragon and he tried to use it as his 'three-pronged sword of masterfulness' on me. He sulked for hours when I reminded him it didn't have  _prongs_." It's been a long time since he's seen her like this - this kind of simple, weightless happiness - and he'd forgotten how beautiful it was. He fights the urge to stare (and to kiss her, to try and prolong that happiness). She puts the object back onto its table and slumps down onto the bed next to him, just like old times - and then looks at him, wide-eyed, moving to stand. "I'm sorry, that was presumptuous of me. I'm sure you want to sleep, I should probably go..."

He shakes his head, gives her a smile. His heart aches a little at the fact that she still needs to worry about being  _presumptuous_  around him - but then, she so often did; so shy, Patience, in some ways, once she let you see it. She could talk strategy all day; ask her about herself and she'd give you little tidbits and anecdotes, glimpses of the woman under all that armour, the bravado that could frighten bandits. Give a sign you wanted to have a sincere bond, confide in her, and she'd be slower; she acted like she was worried you were about to say that it was all a joke. The first time they kissed she did it like she was afraid he'd break, or change his mind...  
  
He can't think about that right now. It hurts too much, and it won't lead to anything good. The thing is, she's different here: quicker to ask questions, to trust. He wonders just how much of the woman he met before was changed by the grief, hollowed out and made afraid.  
  
"No, stay," he says, patting the bed. "I'd be glad of the company." She looks at the bed, her eyes even wider, and he worries that something in his tone made her think... "No, not _that_ sort of company!" No matter how he might want that sort of company from her. (Which he does. Badly. Dammit, now his own cheeks are as red as hers.) "Friends, remember?"  
  
She smiles at him, her eyes still cautious. "It just... felt familiar. This. And I can't explain why."  
  
"We used to do this a lot. Sit and talk about nothing in particular." Not much else to do, when they were the only ones awake because of the nightmares.  
  
Her smile doesn't fade. "Oh. I see. I was also going to ask you if you were hungry."  
  
Constantly. Just another gift from the darkspawn taint. "I..." He considers whether to say something that's polite and also a total lie, but his stomach rumbles and makes the decision for him. "I... suppose that's an answer?" he hazards.  
  
"Come with me," she tells him, and rises. "The kitchens are always fairly well-stocked."  
  
He follows her as she walks to the door, and remarks, "You know, you're awfully generous considering that you were trying to kill me..." He thinks. "...two hours ago."  
  
She doesn't turn round. "You seem harmless enough." Well, very few hurlocks in Ferelden would say the same. And one very pissed-off Archdemon.  
  
"Uh, thank you?" he tries, and she laughs. Good. That's a start. He follows her down the corridor again, notices that she closes his door with a quiet click, that her footsteps are careful. "Everyone's asleep?" he asks her in a half-whisper, and she nods. "I'm sure they'll be fine," he tells her softly. "You could always sneak up on me." (The amount of times she's surprised him with kisses and little gifts... He mentally kicks himself for letting his mind stray there.)  
  
"I heard you in the forest," she replies, and he can tell she's raising an eyebrow. "It wouldn't exactly be  _difficult_."  
  
"Ah, and there's the Patience we all know and... know."  
  
Another little huff of a laugh.  
  
Stairs, more stairs, and then they're turning, and she's leading him into what looks like a kitchen. "There's another room like this further down the corridor," she tells him.  
  
"Right."   
  
She searches through the larder, and ends up presenting him with bread and cheese, as well as a knife and a plate. "It's the best I can do without getting Nan up or burning the house down." Her tone is apologetic.  
  
He laughs, waves a hand. "Don't worry about it. You could see me cook, but I really wouldn't recommend it." He looks around and, seeing a kitchen table, takes a seat and begins to make short work of the food he's been given. He hears the scrape of a chair and the sounds of things being put down on the table; when he looks up, Patience is sitting opposite him. A bottle of wine and two goblets are on the table, and shock is very evident on her face.  
  
"Maker's breath, when was the last time you  _ate?_ " she asks.  
  
 _Sometime before Fort Drakon and the great big bloody dragon_  or  _it's a Warden thing_  are on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't say them. Instead, he consciously makes the effort to slow down. "About a year in the future?" He shrugs.

"Yes, Alistair, very helpful," she replies, and hearing his name from her lips - in that tone that says she's pretending not to be amused - is like coming home.  
  
Speaking of homes... "I'm not Eamon's bastard," he tells her out of nowhere, when he can speak without a mouthful of food.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I saw you putting two and two together when your father was talking about him. All I'm saying is that... well, you made five. As did many other people when I was young."  
  
"Oh." She sounds almost disappointed, and he can hear  _Whose are you, then?_  floating in the air between them, tactfully unsaid. "You know, I don't remember seeing you."  
  
"We were young, you probably wouldn't remember. And truthfully, I wasn't around much anyway," he tells her. "After I went to the stables" - and no, he doesn't miss her surprise at that - "he didn't bring me when he came here. You weren't very old when it happened. If it helps, I don't really remember you either. We only properly met when you were..." He considers it, and realizes with a shock that makes all the hairs on his spine stand up, "A few weeks from now. After you'd arrived at Ostagar."  
  
"You were there?" she asks.  
  
"Oh, I was there," he says darkly, looking at the table. "It was a massacre."  
  
"Fergus is going with the army!"   
  
He looks up at her urgent tone; her eyes are frightened, her posture tense. "Patience," he says softly, "neither of us know.  _Knew_. The last we heard, he was still missing after being sent on a scouting mission."  
  
" _Andraste_ ," she mumbles, her head in her hands and her voice telling him that she's on the edge of tears, "if this is a joke, you're one of the cruellest men I've ever met."  
  
"Patience, I'd never try to hurt you. I promised." After finding the Ashes, her blush still bright even in the darkness of the temple, all because he'd stumbled into saying the first thing that was on his mind, that she was beautiful. "I..."  _I love you_. He nearly said it (it's always at the tip of his tongue, natural as breathing), and if she's unsettled  _now_ , her reaction to  _that_  would be something to see. He puts a hand over one of hers, gently drawing it away from her face, cradling it in his. "I swear we can stop it. All of it."  
  
She swallows, her eyes on the table, her breathing still irregular. Then she looks up and tells him firmly, "You're wrong."   
  
"Patience..." he tries, but she's taking her hand from his, glaring at him as if he's Maferath himself.  
  
"You're wrong. And the worst thing is, you actually  _believe_  the things you're spouting."   
  
"I..." He looks at her, pleads with her. "I honestly hope I am. I don't want you to suffer..." He cuts himself off.  _The way I have_. It nearly broke him.  
  
"I should go to bed," she says, the words terse; the scrape of her chair is too loud in the silence and the sound makes him wince. "Good night," she bids him, obviously not meaning it, and then she's walking out of the kitchen before he can say anything.  
  
He's left in a suddenly empty room, glaring at the untouched bottle of wine on the table. He's tempted to start drinking it, see if it'll take the edge of the pain, but he's rather afraid that if he does, he won't be able to stop. "Well, that went well," he mutters to no-one in particular, running an exasperated hand through his hair.  
  
He finishes the food, not bothering to eat elegantly now there's no-one around, washes the plate and knife and puts them back where Patience took them from, then stumbles to bed. He nearly gets lost twice, only the tapestries on the walls telling him where he is, and he thanks the Maker he had a go at memorizing them earlier.  
  
He blows out the other candelabra - he notes sourly that the one he tried to light is still there where Patience left it - and only takes his boots off before he falls onto the bed with a groan.  
  
His exhausted body drags him into the Fade, even as he dreads what dreams and the morning will bring.


	4. A Meeting of Minds

_Riordan’s looking at us like he wants to cry. I understand that feelings are running high this close to the end, but quite what could be so bad... This isn’t exactly helping the terrified last Wardens in Ferelden. Patience is becoming tenser and tenser with every step we take towards him; I reach out and wordlessly take her hand. It calms her, but_ wow - _if anything, Riordan’s expression becomes even_ more _miserable._

* * *

There is a man in front of him – one of the handsomest men he’s ever seen, actually; he’s drawn to him, a little entranced, and he feels strange for thinking it, because his interests have never really lain in the male direction- with a leg loosely crossed over the other, regarding him coolly over a chessboard.

Where did the chessboard come from? And why is he in his ratty old splintmail from the Blight? Oh, he has no idea. Best to roll with it, he decides, and try and find out what in the _Fade_ is going on. Wait... “This is the Fade, isn’t it?” He looks up and sees the Black City in the distance, the familiar haze at the edges of the dream.

The stranger smiles, nods, dark eyes appraising. “ _Well done, Warden.”_ He has an accent, and it sounds familiar, but Alistair can’t think for the life of him what it is.

This is all making Alistair distinctly nervous – you’d think that if there was one place you could get some time to yourself, it would be your _dreams._ “Why are you here? Why aren’t I dreaming about the Archdemon and... I don’t know... Oghren in frilly pantaloons?”

A hint of a chuckle from the intruder, and he answers, “ _You may recognize me. I have been in your dreams many times, but we have only met once. I have the feeling I did not exactly make the best impression.”_ He looks down at his hands.

“We’ve met?” The stranger does seem familiar, but he can’t quite put his finger on where he’s seen him before...

“ _Mm. Though you were a little preoccupied with a shoving a sword through my skull at the time,_ ” the man – but of course, he isn’t a man at _all,_ is he, he’s just wearing the _skin_ of one – answers dryly.

Alistair jumps up, the chair falling behind him. “ _Urthemiel?!_ ”

The Old God meets his eye. “ _Sit_ down, _boy. I’m not about to eat you. I might have in the time of the Blight, but that’s an entirely different matter.”_

Alistair stands, ready to reach for a sword that isn’t there, and debates with himself for a few moments, watching Urthemiel out of the corner of his eye. Eventually he realizes that the god... man... thing isn’t going anywhere, so he quietly rights the chair and sits on the edge of it, his shoulders tense. Ready to run, and ready to fight if it’s required. “I... see.” No, he really doesn’t, and Urthemiel can obviously tell; what he’s settled for thinking of as his “chess opponent,” to stop his mind finally breaking completely, watches him with sceptical eyes.

“ _I think that these matters are a little beyond your comprehension, mortal.”_

He fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Would everyone _please_ stop treating me as if I’m stupid? Maker, you’re beginning to sound like _Morrigan_.”

He thinks he sees a flinch (though whether it’s at mention of the Maker or the name of the woman who could have been the god’s evil demon-mother he doesn’t know), but it’s brief, and then Urthemiel’s effortless composure has been regained. “ _Let me put it like this,”_ the Old God says at last. “ _You freed me. The Hero Of Ferelden – the Fifth – must have his reward.”_ He – it – gives Alistair a smile, all teeth and gleaming eyes, impossibly beautiful and impossibly terrifying.

Alistair shows his palms in hasty denial. “No, that’s... that’s not me. I think you mean Patience.” A second ticks by. “Wait, the Fifth?” Five Blights, five Warden. Makes sense, he supposes.

Urthemiel rolls his eyes, probably wondering how he was saddled with a murderer with such a thick skull. “ _You are not the first to receive this gift; it has been given since the time of Dumat. He was pleased with his saviour, and so gave him what he most desired – this – and thanked him. Silently, of course.”_

“You... you did this? Sent me back?”

_“Things are... different, in your world; easier to tamper with. Yes, I sent you back, as you deserved.”_

“So you _are_ a god?” He would have to be, to talk about such things like they’re easy.

“ _That would depend on your ideas,”_ Urthemiel responds smoothly, making no move to say any more.

Hang on. “His saviour... what he most wanted – are you saying that _all_ the Wardens wanted to start back at the beginning _?”_

Urthemiel’s eyes are sharp and unreadable, giving no answer, as he says, “ _The Grey are soldiers of regret. All are recruited when they have no hope, no other way, or they are tricked. The best and the broken. You were far from the only dragon-slayer in pain.”_

Alistair thinks he should protest, say that it isn’t like that, that there’s _honour_ in it, but the idea of arguing with what may well be a god seems unwise, to say the least.

 _“You saw the human_ _you grew attached to suffer for many months, and you lost all that you held dear. And then you died for the foolish notion that she’d_ remember _you.”_ That frightening smile again. “ _Tell me, little prince – did you enjoy oblivion? After such a long journey, did it feel good to finally rest?”_

There is a silence as Alistair stares down at the board, black and white merging together as his eyes lose focus, and thinks, _Checkmate for Urthemiel._ “Yes _,”_ he finally admits, hating himself more than a little for it. “Yes, it did.” 

“ _Good.”_ A long-fingered hand, the nails painted, cups his chin, raises his head to meet those infinite eyes. “ _Now, my boy. Do not stop, do not tarry, sleep only to speak with me. Use this gift wisely.”_

 _“_ But I don’t...” 

* * *

_... know where to start,_ Alistair thinks as he wakes, feeling nauseous and more than a little frustrated. Gods have the power to affect time itself, but not to just give him a straight answer?

He rolls over, expecting the presence of another body beside his own, warm and drowsy, her hair a bird’s nest that never fails to make him laugh in the mornings; it’s like a punch to the gut when he realizes that she isn’t there. A stretch of corridor suddenly feels like the Waking Sea, the woman probably sleeping peacefully just a few rooms away unreachable. He sighs, looks around his room to distract himself.

Light shines through the window, that of the dawn; it’ll be morning soon. He climbs out of the bed, looking at the brightening sky.

Soon, Howe will be here, and he’ll enjoy dragging that bastard’s victory away from him.


	5. Sound & Fury

_I believe in Anora. That feels strange to say, considering all that’s happened - considering the betrayal - but I think she looks better on that throne than I ever would have._

_I made my choice. I made it a long time ago, stuck in a Chantry with my bastard blood hanging over my head.  
_

* * *

Patience wakes after another restless night, knowing that she’s had a nightmare but unable to remember it. She runs a hand through wild hair, not even attempting to try and neaten it this early in the day, and carefully doesn’t look at the door of their guest’s room as she walks past it.  
  
Soldier, Eamon’s ward... it doesn’t matter. Whoever he is, this Alistair is certainly a liar, and a hurtful one at that. Sometimes she believes him; has a wild moment of thinking that perhaps he’s right, that they’ve met somewhere before, that he might actually want to help her – and then he talks about things that she can’t imagine happening, that would haunt her in nightmares, and it feels like he’s taunting her.   
  
She descends the stairs and makes sure she doesn’t show a reaction when she sees him at the large central table; he’s being treated as a guest, and if her parents want him to break his fast with them it’s no business of hers. It will easily seat sixteen, so her family cluster around one end; she grabs a seat next to Fergus – Oriana is on the other side of him, exchanging suggestions with her mother for some fabric recently gifted to them after the resolution of a land dispute – and silently takes in the veritable feast that has been laid out for them. It’s obviously known that they have a guest; she makes a note to thank a few people down in the kitchen.  
  
She’s so busy concentrating on the food that she almost –  _almost_  – misses the pause that her presence causes in the animated conversation being had by her brother and their unwanted guest.  
  
“A massacre, you say?” Fergus’s tone is sceptical, but it’s also worryingly interested.  
  
“Mm.” The clinking of cutlery, the scrapes of it being moved around on a plate. “It was...” Alistair’s voice trails off. “I hope I never have to see it again. The king's army, the Wardens... We lost them all.”  
  
“And I was in the Wilds?”  
  
"Yes. Patience did try and have a search party sent out, but there just wasn't time. I'm sorry." It feels strange, hearing her name from his lips like that - listening to him talk about another Patience in his head, one she'll never know. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up; it feel as though someone's walked over her grave.  
  
" _Stop_  it!"  
  
It takes her a moment to realize that she's said the words - and far too loudly, at that. Everyone at the table stares at her, and she continues, "Oren is two seats away." She waves a hand at where her nephew is sitting next to Oriana. "He doesn't need to hear this. In fact, none of us needs to yet. Howe hasn't arrived. Can we just... eat?"  
  
Fergus lets out an incredulous whistle and returns to his food, but Alistair finally meets her eye. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."  
  
She should leave it there, really. She knows she should. He doesn't appear to be trying to unsettle her. She means to say, "Don't worry, it doesn't matter," but what comes out instead is, "No. You weren't."  
  
He frowns at her, hurt in his eyes, and then looks back to his plate without replying. It hits her suddenly: a surprising, strange feeling that in another time, another place, he would have returned that with a jab of his own - something quick, a little chiding, but with all the sharp edges filed off to let her know she was forgiven.   
  
 _What - ?_    
  
She shakes her head, and the feeling is gone as quickly as it came. She's already fooled herself into thinking she knows this stranger who's wandered into their house, and that worries her more than his frightening prophecies do.

* * *

The breakfast - tense and unpleasant as it is - can only last for so long, and she asks to be excused so she can at least make herself look presentable before the day starts.

It's only a few minutes later, when she's in her room, that she hears a commotion downstairs. She's sitting at her dressing table, trying to pin up her hair - it's as stubborn as ever, and the task has her gritting her teeth around the pins she's had to hold in her mouth. Knowing that her father intends to keep her out of the actual fighting - something that he, to her dismay, corroborated when Alistair mentioned it - she considered wearing a dress, but she's settled for her old, worn leathers. She'll probably need them for training today, she tells herself, no matter what the madman downstairs says.   
  
There is a quiet knock on her door, and the sound of a servant waiting patiently outside. Used to it by now, she calls, "Come in."   
  
"Patience?"  
  
She jumps at the unexpected sound of his voice, hissing a curse as several pins drop to the floor.   
  
He's across the room surprisingly fast, crouching next to her chair and gathering up pins. "Oh Maker, I'm sorry - I shouldn't have startled you." He looks up and realizes that she's still watching him in surprise.  
  
"I... There's no need. I can deal with them myself," she tells him. She takes the pins anyway, with a muttered, "Thank you."  
  
"Not a problem." He gets to his feet, and there's that bright, infectious smile again. It fades as he says, "About this morning..."  
  
"I'm sorry," they say at the same time, and stare at each other.  
  
His grin has returned with a vengeance. "We're... quite the pair, aren't we? Can't even apologize without fighting each other for it." He looks away then, as if he's said something that's hit a nerve. "I actually came to tell you that Howe's here." He meets her eye, turning down a corner of his mouth. "Thought you ought to know, seeing as your father will want you to greet your  _guest_."  
  
The last word is sour, and she asks him in more than a little disbelief, "You really don't like him, do you?"  
  
"After seeing what he did to you? Dislike would be rather an understatement." The words are calm, if contemptuous, but something in his eyes frightens her. All of a sudden, his demeanour lightens as he gives her an assessing look and says, "It looks better loose, you know."  
  
"What?" she asks, utterly nonplussed.  
  
"Your hair. At least, I've always thought so." He gives her a smile that's a pale shadow of its sibling, his eyes far away, and then seems to register what he's said. "I'm sorry. I, uh, I should go." He starts to move towards the door.  
  
She looks down at the pins she's holding, mutters, "Oh,  _sod_  it," and follows him, flyaway hair and all.

She's unsurprised when, as they reach the main hall, he peels away. She looks over her shoulder as she approaches Father and Arl Howe, and sees that he's leaning against a wall of the main hall with crossed arms and a displeased expression. Even out of armour, he fits in perfectly with the troops milling around, waiting for their orders;  _definitely_  a soldier, it's in his bearing - and he mentioned a sword, after all.  
  
She suppresses her nerves - he's wrong; his story is simply  _impossible_  - and greets the Arl, pasting a smile onto her face.  
  
Howe turns, seeming pleased to see her. "I see your daughter has grown into a lovely young woman."  
  
Being gangly, wild-haired and interested in the martial arts, she knows it's a lie, but she still smiles a little at the compliment - it's nice to hear someone say it. "Thank you, Arl Howe."  
  
He mentions his son Thomas, hinting not-so-subtly at a match - and that reminds her, Nathaniel's still in the Free Marches, isn't he? She fields it, playing the fool. When he says he should bring Thomas along next time he visits, she gives him a sweet, innocent smile and asks, "Why might that be?"  
  
Conversation moves on; she nods and smiles, drifting along with the small talk but not really paying much attention, until Howe says, "I'm afraid there's been a delay. My men should arrive tonight, or perhaps in the morning."  
  
Her father doesn't flinch - nothing in his manner changes at all, it's rather astonishing - but she can't stop herself turning her head: looking back to the corner where she knows Alistair will be. He levelly meets her eye, and she swallows.  
  
It doesn't mean anything. It might not be important. They might have run into muddy roads, had problems at the castle...  
  
There is a murmur at the door, people moving to let someone through, and into the room walks a man like none she's ever seen before. Tall, dark-eyed and sombre, armoured in plate and cloth that look older than she is, he moves through the room as if he has a mission, only stopping when he spots something that appears to surprise him.  
  
Howe frowns; her father asks him about how his wife is doing, dragging him back into the conversation, but his gaze keeps straying to the man in the corner - the man who is currently striding over to Alistair, a frown on his face.  
  
Patience pretends to keep up with the vacant small talk of the men before her, but she's focused on the conversation going on across the room; she's always been good at eavesdropping, and she thanks the Maker for that now. They're only a few feet away; she can filter out the soldiers' background chatter, and she can make out most of the words exchanged.  
  
"Alistair?" The stranger seems more than a little perturbed. "You should be in Denerim."  
  
Alistair runs a hand down his face. "I know. I didn't - Duncan, I woke up here."  
  
"You..." Their visitor - Duncan, she knows now - raises an eyebrow. "...woke up here?"  
  
There is a pause, and Alistair grimaces. "I need to speak to you. If you don't mind. Commander," he adds as an afterthought, as if he hasn't used the word in months.   
  
"I have business to attend to with the Arl..."  
  
"You want to recruit his daughter, I know." He didn't tell them that, and it worries her. Commander of what? Recruiting for what?  
  
"Alistair, how do you know this?"  
  
"It's... complicated, but look, Howe's about to betray them all..."

"Alistair!" Duncan's tone is sharper now. "Make  _sense_ , boy."  
  
"I don't know how to say this." He sighs. "Duncan, I know what happens when a Warden kills the Archdemon."  
  
"Yes, I'm sure you've heard stories." The older man is sceptical, beginning to sound a little impatient.  
  
"No, I mean - oh, we _really_ shouldn't do this here. Not the bright light, not the stories. I  _know_  what  _happens_.  _I killed it._  My..." He taps a finger to his head, seems to choke on the words, and she doesn't quite hear what he says next.  
  
 _What's an Archdemon?_ she thinks, before her preoccupied mind catches up with the rest of what he's said.  _A Warden kills it. I killed it.  
_  
 _Maker,_ the man that picked up her hairpins is a bloody  _Grey Warden_. And he's saying that  _she_  could be one, too.  
  
There is a pause. "Alistair, do you know what you're saying?"  
  
" _Yes,_ " Alistair answers, sounding more than a little desperate. "For once in my life, I think I do. I fought the Blight. I killed it. And then I woke up,  _back at the beginning_ , and everything's happening the way Patience told me it did." His voice cracks. "Please. You have to believe me, or you'll be recruiting her..." He swallows. "You dragged her away from her dying parents." She feels nausea rise in her throat, ignores it and listens to him say, "Trust me. Please. We need to make our move before tonight. If I'm wrong, we can all laugh and go home, but if we're not, we save their lives."  
  
The commander places a gauntleted hand on Alistair's shoulder. "Alistair... the killing blow was meant for me. If what you're saying is true, then I am sorry." Patience doesn't understand; what is there to be sorry about? He killed a... demon? That's a victory, isn't it?  
  
Alistair's reply is quiet. "It was for a good cause. The best cause." A pause. "Wait. You believe me?"  
  
"There were records in Weisshaupt regarding similar things. Of course, with Grey Wardens, it is often difficult to separate the legend from the reality, and I - as had the others of our number - had always assumed that such stories were rumour. A more... poetic ending to the tales, if you like, to soften the blow of how they must end."  
  
"Then why didn't I  _hear_ \- ?"  
  
"We speak of fiercely guarded Warden secrets. A novice such as yourself would never have had access to them. That and the fact that I've never heard you tell a convincing lie in your life give me cause to think you truthful." Is it Patience, or is the Warden Commander... amused?  
  
"I'm... not sure if that was a compliment..."  
  
"Trustworthiness is a great asset, Alistair," Duncan replies wryly. "Now, walk with me."  
  
Patience looks back to Father and Howe's conversation as the Wardens approach, pretending that she's heard nothing, but it's just a second too late - Alistair looks their way and catches her eye. He raises an eyebrow, his expression telling her he knows perfectly well what she's been doing.  _Damn_.  
  
Howe tenses almost imperceptibly as the two men join the conversation, but Father just smiles, implacable. "Duncan. I... wasn't expecting you." He's lying, because Alistair  _told_  them this would happen, and damn it all, Alistair's right.  
  
Alistair's  _right._  
  
She looks at him, knowing that her eyes must be more than a little manic. He frowns at her, not understanding, and she just thinks,  _Thank the Maker I was sparring today_.  
  
She has one of her daggers unsheathed and at Howe's throat before the bastard can blink, and she's hissing, "Your men aren't  _late_ , are they?"


	6. Pragmatism

_I hate the way Loghain's looking at me; like he expects to see someone else in my place. He calls me "Maric's bastard," as if I've got no other name, and I know - he's looking for Maric in my face, the man whose son he left to die._

_Cailan, and the others: Simon. Temperley. Gregor. Duncan. There are too many to list. It doesn't matter._  
  
What does matter is this: he will not  _live. He doesn't_ deserve _to live._

* * *

 "Patience - !" her father begins, but she just gives the smallest shake of her head. Diplomacy and backstabbing got them into this mess; perhaps a little brute force is long overdue.

"What do you think you're doing, girl?!" Howe cries, outraged.  
  
"Let's see," she says, her dagger still at his throat, the edge kissing flesh but not quite hard enough to draw blood. Yet. "Our soldiers travel to Ostagar, leaving the castle conveniently defenceless. How am I doing so far?"  
  
She didn't miss the twitch in Howe's eye when she said it, but now he is all calm, looking at her as though her suggestion is outlandish. "Quite why you would make such an accusation..."  
  
"I have proof," she grits out, and doesn't miss the questioning look that her father gives her.   
  
"Proof?" he asks.  
  
She nods. She sees in his eyes that he believes her, and she can explain later. "I'm guessing your men are waiting," she tells Howe. "I'm not sure how far away. I'm not sure when they'll come. But I'm almost certain they're waiting." She puts a little more force on the dagger; a trickle of blood comes from beneath it, slides down Howe's neck.  
  
He looks to her father. "Bryce, your daughter is out of control. Listen to what she is saying..."  
  
Her father's reply is calm, but there is no compassion in it - he makes no move to step in. "I have listened, Rendon."  
  
Duncan's voice is quiet behind her. "Perhaps we should allow King Cailan to deal with this."  
  
The words were meant for her father, but Patience finds herself replying to them anyway. "The king has larger matters to deal with than civil war. And we know what the sentence is for crimes such as this."  
  
She looks into Howe's eyes - the man whose children grew up alongside her, the man who brought toys for her crib - and for the first time, she sees real fear in them. "I hope you're right, Alistair," she says quietly.  
  
"I know I am," the Warden replies from behind her.  
  
She looks into Howe's eyes once again. "Your men. Are they waiting?"  
  
Howe is panting now, his eyes flitting down to try and watch the dagger, and his skin is pale. "I have no idea - "  
  
More pressure on the dagger. A little more blood. " _Are_  they  _waiting?_ "  
  
"I - " The blood reaches the collar of his beautifully embellished armour. He hesitates, then: " _Yes._ "  
  
If this were a grand epic, some tale told by the bards, she would say something profound, a phrase for the ages; perhaps give the man one last prayer:  _May the Maker forgive you the way I never will._  Perhaps she would apologize to Nathaniel, Thomas, Delilah. Perhaps.  
  
Instead she grits her teeth and says nothing. A wrench, the dagger moving, quick and precise, and then it's over. It's not a pretty death; there is far too much blood for such a simple slit of the throat - surely something so quick shouldn't be so dreadful - and then Howe falls, choking on a few last breaths before he ends. His eyes are open.  
  
She's dimly aware of the dagger hitting the floor, of her feet failing to hold her, and then she's sitting, staring at the corpse of the man who has been all but family to her since she was born.  
  
"Patience?" her father asks.  
  
She doesn't answer, still staring at the corpse, and then she is pressing her face to the back of her hand, trying to restrain her sobs. This is not behaviour befitting the the Lady Cousland. This is not behaviour befitting a woman who has been trained to kill for her entire life. This is something she cannot hope to stop, to hold back and make dignified; she's weeping into her hand, her breaths loud and hiccuping, her chest heaving. Embarrassment is hot in her veins, but she can't compose herself enough to care about the people in the hall who are no doubt gaping at her little display.  
  
She hears the sounds of clothing, and looks up to see her father kneeling next to her. "It's all right. It's all right." He puts a hand on her arm. "I remember the first time I killed a man..." His eyes are far away. "It's never easy, and it is never meant to be. Rendon made his choice." He puts her arms around her, giving her an awkward hug. They stay like that for what could be seconds or could be days, knees aching from the cold stone floor, her head on his shoulder. Eventually, he pats her on the back. "Now, my girl, you ought to be going. I will speak to the men. There will be time to talk about this later." She feels him look up, hears him tell someone, "Help her to her room." He lets go of her and offers her a hand.  
  
She takes it and gets to her feet, her breathing still irregular and her vision blurry. She attempts to give him a smile. She feels a hand on her arm, allows her guide to lead her out of the room and up steps, and stops at the door to her room, trying to breathe.  
  
"Patience?" A familiar voice asks, and she turns; she realizes that it's Alistair who has led her here. He's looking at her with concerned eyes, his hand still on her arm. "Speak to me."  
  
She's still panting, but her breaths are coming easier now. Her lungs hurt less. She looks at him. "Tell me... tell me I did the right thing." It comes out like too much of a plea for her own comfort.  
  
He watches her for a moment, then his hand shifts to rest on her shoulder, the other coming up to the same. "You did the right thing," he tells her. His voice is firm, even if his eyes are impossibly sad.   
  
She should be bothered by the intimacy of the gesture, but she's busy, shocked at the flash of... awareness - memory? - that has come to her. "I killed him last time, didn't I?"  
  
He laughs, small and short. "At least now you admit there was a last time." He sobers. "Yes, you did. How did you know?"  
  
"I... remembered," she says quietly, and doesn't miss the surprise that crosses his face. "I asked you the same question. You gave me the same answer."  
  
"You...?" And now the surprise is replaced by hope, his hands framing her face. "You remember me?"   
  
There's a moment where his eyes are alight, his hands gentle, and she almost wonders what would happen if she said yes.   
  
When she shakes her head, he takes his hands away as if her skin is burning him, his disappointment plain to see. "Then what - ?"  
  
"I remember... flashes. Feelings. No details, not much. Just... sometimes. I know you," she tells him, and he exhales a relieved a breath. "At breakfast, I knew... I expected you to argue. Bad jokes, little... things."  
  
He smiles. "You obviously know me  _too_  well, then."  
  
"I thought it was just my imagination, and then I heard you and your commander. You're a Grey Warden, aren't you?"  
  
The smile drops from his face. "Can we...?" He gestures to her room. "We should at least sit down and talk about this."  
  
She nods, opens the door and walks her dressing table, turning round its chair and then sitting down.   
  
He takes a nearby chair that is usually for servants and guests. He leans forwards, tapping his fingers together, his hands on his knees; he could never be a noble - he sits gracelessly, intense and interested rather than cool and composed. He sighs, looking down at his lap, and then looks up to meet her eye. "Yes. I am. I'd hoped not to have this conversation yet, but I guess I'm not so lucky." He shrugs. "I can guess what you were about to ask - yes, so were you."  
  
"Why?" she asks, utterly confused.  
  
His smile, like so many of them, is bittersweet. "Me, I was... all right, I suppose." After their encounter in the forest, Patience begs to differ. "But _you?_ You were something special. I saw you fight, and your training obviously paid off."  
  
She sits, a hand on her chin, and thinks that over, and says, "You killed the Archdemon?"  
  
Something changes in his manner: he straightens, his shoulders tense and his eyes guarded, and asks her, "Do you remember that?"  
  
She shakes her head. "I heard you saying it to the other Warden."  
  
"What is an Archdemon? Why were you talking about it like it was a bad thing?"  
  
There is a long silence. He runs a hand over his mouth, seeming to mull over his answer. "It's very difficult to explain." When she opens her mouth, he adds, "And I don't want to explain it." His voice is sharp, sharper even than it was when they were short of time and he was regarded as a lunatic. "Hopefully you'll never have to find out."  
  
"But I don't _understand_..."  
  
"Patience, it doesn't  _matter_. I'm just glad that you're all right. That your family are all right. I'm sorry it had to end like this, but..." He swallows. "It's done. You're safe, and that's all that matters." He sighs, looks to the door. "I need to see Duncan. You should take some time to calm down. I'll see you later."  
  
And then he's leaving, the door shutting behind him, and she's wondering what she said wrong.

* * *

She only realizes that she's nodded off when she wakes, her head pressed uncomfortably against her dressing table. She straightens with a groan, her back clicking, and yawns, looking towards the door. She has no idea how long she's been asleep.

She looks at the door, nausea and fear rising in her throat. How can she explain her actions? What if they've ruined the plan of action for Ostagar?  
  
She leaves her room, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click. Walking down the corridor, she only stops when she hears familiar voices: Alistair's. There is another, she realizes: the odd, dark-eyed commander's. They're in his room, and though the door is shut, she can hear what they're saying.  
  
"You  _can't_  recruit her. There's no  _point_."  
  
"Alistair - "  
  
"We did it with two, we have, what, eight times that number?"  
  
She fights her anger. So he's interfering with her life again, dictating her fate without her consent; he has no right. Being a Warden is an honourable calling;  _the Grey Warden_  is many, many times better than  _the Cousland daughter_.  
  
"We need fighters of her calibre. And you know as well as I that we need as many Wardens as possible. The minimum is not enough."  
  
"Yes," Alistair counters, his voice bitter, "so you have more to throw at the darkspawn."  
  
"Yes." Duncan's reply is quiet, the word heavy.  
  
"Why expose her to all this - the Calling, the nightmares, the Archdemon - if you don't  _have_  to?" Alistair is almost shouting now, frustration plain in his voice.  
  
"It is not as if I have a choice, Alistair. I came here to recruit, and it's what I must do."  
  
"But she could... she could have a full lifetime. Children. At least  _one_  of us deserves that!" Alistair is desperate now. "Or you could just... recruit her. No Joining, no Taint, just as a soldier."  
  
"And what will you say when she is tainted and dying after the first fight?"  
  
"Please." Alistair's reply is hushed. "Don't. I know you're right, but don't."  
  
There is a pause, and then Duncan asks carefully, "What happened exactly during the Blight?"  
  
Alistair sighs. "As I said, we were the only two left. You were... dead... and the others were massacred. Loghain's plan. And she was my best friend, the only other Warden left. I couldn't have done it without her." A sigh. "I just... wish there was a better way."  
  
 _Only other Warden? Best friend?_  It explains the presumed intimacy, the way he instinctually seems to seek her out. She suddenly can't help feeling more than a little sorry for him - she doesn't even remember him, not properly.  
  
"As do I," Duncan says. "Come, we must speak to the Couslands."  
  
She hastily begins to walk down the corridor, her steps quiet, dreading the thought of them knowing she's overheard them. She descends the stairs, hearing the door open and the two of them step into the corridor a few feet behind her.  
  
She's surprised to find her mother and father deep in conversation with Gilmore. The knight looks up as she approaches, his smile tentative. "Your training obviously paid off."  
  
Her reply is a small, humourless laugh, and, "That it did."  
  
She hears Alistair and Duncan join her, and before she realizes quite what she's doing, shoots the younger Warden a small smile. He returns it.  
  
 _She was my best friend._  
  
"About the proof your daughter spoke of..." Duncan begins.  
  
"You can corroborate that?" her father asks.  
  
Duncan nods. "Such experiences as Alistair's are... not unheard of, though they are rarely documented. Other Warden texts would suggest that the things he predicts will be correct."  
  
"But how - ?" her father asks.  
  
"It has to do with the ending of the Blight," Duncan replies. "To say any more would be to violate a code of secrecy that has been in place for thousands of years, for good reason. But suffice to say, situations such as ours are not unprecedented."  
  
Father nods, letting out a breath. "I see."  
  
Mother looks at her and tells her, "The men have been assured that what happened this morning was not without cause. Most of the soldiers are still here, just in case..." She trails off, looks to Father.  
  
"We're keeping Fergus here for now," Father chips in. "After the day we've had, I want my family where I can keep them safe."  
  
"And Howe's men?" Patience asks, suddenly afraid. If they're still lying in wait...  
  
"We've sent several men to give them the message that their Arl is dead," Mother tells her. "If that's not enough to make them surrender, our own men are waiting."  
  
"But if they come tonight..." Patience begins.  
  
"I would advise getting your rest now," Mother replies. "We have half the men awake, waiting for the reply from Howe's men. If they stick to Rendon's proposed tactics and come tonight, we'll need to be ready for them. The other men can be awoken. This way, we have a good half of our army alert."  
  
Patience nods. "I see."  
  
Mother smiles at her then, soft and tired. "Well done, darling. I'm sorry about this morning." She looks at Alistair. "And thank you, Warden." It's strange to see the change in everyone's reactions, now that he's not just their welcomed, maybe-slightly-insane guest but instead one of the fabled Grey Wardens; her mother's back is straighter, and there is respect in her eyes.  
  
He nods in return, his manner cheerful. "Happy to be of help."  
  
Father looks at Duncan. "You've done well there."  
  
Duncan's smile is small - everything about the man is quiet, understated - but definitely there. "Yes, I think I have." His expression darkens. "Speaking of such things - we have much to discuss."  
  
It is as though a cloud has passed over her father's face. "It shall have to wait until tomorrow. A servant can provide you with a room, if you are willing?"  
  
Duncan nods.   
  
Father looks back to her. "Patience, get some sleep. We'll do all we can to protect you, but if you have to stand with us..."  
  
She cuts him off with, "I will. Gladly." Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Alistair smile, and wonders why.  
  
Duncan says to the younger Warden, "You should also retire, Alistair. I assume you intend to join the fray if it is required?"  
  
Patience frowns. She thought every Warden was needed for the Blight.  
  
Alistair nods. "Yes." He turns, starts to make his way out of the room, and Patience does the same.   
  
"What was so funny?" she asks, when they're away from the rest of the conversation.  
  
He looks at her in surprise. "Oh?"  
  
"When I volunteered to join the fight."  
  
He shakes his head with the hint of a laugh. "Oh, that. Nothing; I was just thinking that  _that_  was the Patience I know. So eager. I swear, sometimes I thought you had a deathwish."  
  
"Was that another reason I was recruited into the Wardens?" she asks, as they walk down the corridor.  
  
His expression becomes significantly less happy. "Yes, it was." He looks at his door, and then gives her a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I best get some sleep. See you tonight."  
  
She nods, walks past him and into her room, but even when she's lying in her bed, thoughts are still ticking away in her head. What he said about the Wardens... She was angry at first, but it almost seems like he was trying to  _save_  her from recruitment.

* * *

 Alistair sighs as he recognizes Urthemiel before him, the murky light of the Fade. They're in a darkened, impossibly large library - when he looks to the left and the right, the shelves in front and behind him seem to go on forever, no end in sight. 

The god is sitting at a small desk, leafing through a book; a small wisp floating by his side provides the only light in the room. Alistair has found himself in a chair on the opposite side, and he crosses his arms, waiting for the god's attention.  
  
After a moment or two, Urthemiel places a piece of parchment on his current page, closes the book and looks up. His smile is a knife, all bright teeth and danger. " _Ah. Five._ "  
  
 _Five what?_  Alistair wonders, then he realizes - he's Warden number five. "My name is Alistair." He watches Urthemiel, waiting for a reaction - an answer - as he says, "So, is that it, then? Everyone's happy, the Couslands are alive, Duncan knows about Ostagar, let's all go home? Do I die now?"  
  
Urthemiel is unperturbed. " _Alistair. I will remember that. So, Alistair, do you really think that you are finished? The Blight hasn't even truly begun, and you're ready to lie down and give in? I thought more of you, Hero."_  
  
Alistair slashes a hand through the air. "For the last time - Patience, not me. And no, I'm not, but what am I supposed to do? Last time she was the only thing that kept me sane, and now she can't even remember me."  
 __  
Urthemiel's smile, if anything, widens, and it sends shivers down Alistair's spine. "She remembers pieces of you. She will not run from you, and you have her friendship. Is that not enough?"  
  
He knows what he wants to say. The truth comes out instead. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and grits out, _"No."_  He misses her skin and her lips and waking up with her in the morning. He misses the old feeling he had - before the Archdemon, before the depressing inevitability of it all - that after the Blight was over, he might just have something worth coming home to. He misses the kisses that made him weak at the knees and the love. Most of all, the love. "It's not nearly enough."

 _"It shall have to do,"_ Urthemiel calmly replies.

* * *

Alistair wakes up in an empty bed, with gritted teeth and an ache in his chest.


	7. A Day Like This

  _It was a day like this when my house burnt down_  
 _And the walls were thin and they crashed to the ground_  
 _It was a day like this that my life unwound_

**~ A House - Doves**

 

 

 

_Anyone else feel like they’re about to vomit on these fancy carpets? No? Just me, then._

_Don’t let this... Don’t let the blood win. Let me be..._ me _, not king._ Please _, Patience._

* * *

Father wakes her up himself instead of sending a servant to do it. “You ready, Pup?” he asks her, and she nods. What else can she do?

He ruffles her hair and leaves the room. She dresses, puts on her armour and boots, and walks downstairs, into the entrance hall, to hear Duncan asking someone who is most likely Alistair, “Do you think you’re ready for this?”

She turns her head to see the source of the noise, and tries to hide her double-take: Alistair has obviously found some gear from the armoury – he’s standing tall, wearing splintmail, and has a hand to his sword hilt. He’s a far cry from the awkward, polite man she found in the grounds, seeming far more comfortable this way. (This can’t be the man who took her face in gentle hands and tried to reassure her after Howe’s death, either, and she wonders where that thought’s come from.)

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Alistair replies false-brightly, and that’s familiar.

“You’ve fought darkspawn. Men are not the same, not by far.”

Alistair shrugs. “The Chantry made no bones about the fact we’d have to kill... well, basically innocent people." Patience frowns at that, wondering what he means.

"True as that may be - and important as the Couslands are - we should really be elsewhere," Duncan tells him. "We are needed at Ostagar."

For the first time, Patience hears Alistair speak to his superior with real anger. "Like the advance will happen without the biggest army on the field. We wouldn't have a chance. And if you saw something like this - if you knew what might happen - tell me you wouldn't at least try and stop it."

There is a silence, and then Duncan asks him quietly, "There really is no moving you, is there?"

"No. Not until sh... not until they're safe."

After glancing around the room, Patience walks up to them. “Wardens,” she says with a nod. “Have either of you seen Ser Gilmore?”

Alistair frowns. “Red-headed fellow, polite, rather fine with a sword?”

She smiles with second-hand pride for Rory – if even a Warden thinks so... “Sounds like you’ve got him down to a T.”

“Nice man.” The Warden points. “He’s down in the Teyrn’s office, with your parents.”

“Thank you, Alistair.” She returns the smile he gives her and sets off to find her instructor.

“I think she can do it,” she hears from outside the door. “With respect, Teyrn, Teyrna, she’s already done it.”

Her father replies, “Once, and it was hardly easy for her. She’s just not cold enough.”

She doesn’t understand at first, and then it dawns on her; she puts a hand to her mouth to stem the nausea, Howe’s corpse flickering behind her eyelid every time she blinks. Oh Maker. They think she can’t kill.

“This is what I’ve trained her for,” Rory returns. “She has to learn sometime.”

“I don’t - ”

She’s had quite enough of listening to this, and so she walks into the room and declares, “I can, and I will. I am not letting him get away with...” She chokes; the idea is still horrifying for her. “...that. What the Warden spoke of.” The images that flash through her head every time she has to speak of it, think of it, terrify her – but they anger, too, make something rise in her stomach, a feverish, gut-wrenching itch that spreads to her fingers. She has gripped the hilts of her daggers more in the past few minutes than she probably has in her entire life. “I am quite prepared to kill to protect this family.”

Rory smiles at her, and there’s something proud in it. Both of her parents look taken aback, but there’s something in her mother’s eye, a steely glint that she belatedly recognizes as respect.

Yes. In Alistair’s world – in this world – she was a Grey Warden. _Will be_ a Grey Warden. She can’t be a coward now.

“Where should I go?” she asks, and they tell her that she will be near the kitchens with several soldiers – right at the back of the army, in case the first wave doesn't stop Howe's men. It feels unfair, somehow, that these men who have done nothing wrong - who aren't even defending their own blood - should have to face death before her, but she acquiesces, nods. "I see."

She walks from the office to the kitchens, and Rory leads her to her post. "That was brave of you, Lady."

She shakes her head with a humourless laugh. "Andraste's sword! How I wish it was." At his confused look, she tells him, "This is necessity. This is something I'm doing to spare myself pain. Let's be honest about that - I'm many things, but I could never be called brave."

"Or, you know, you could think of it this way - you're offering to die for your family," a voice cuts in from behind them. "Sounds like you. Sounds pretty brave, too, from where I'm standing." Their resident Warden falls into step with her, Rory on her other side. He nods to the knight. "Gilmore."

"Warden," Rory returns, before looking back to her. "Some things are worth taking pride in."

She hadn't thought of it like that, but now she does, it frightens her. Is she volunteering for a death sentence? She only realizes that she's spoken the last thought aloud when Alistair shrugs, tells her, "Maybe. We all have at one point or another."

It's a strange thing to hear; but then again, it's just the sort of thing she'd expect from him, this casual brushing-off of imminent death. He talks about the most serious things all but breezily, and the smallest pleasures like they're the world. She's never met anyone quite like it.

He looks over his shoulder. "I should really be at the front, with the others. I'll see you soon." He gives her a significant look. "Hopefully."

She hasn't said goodbye to her parents. She pauses there in the corridor, the moment the thought occurs to her, and they look at her in confusion. "It's been an honour," she tells Alistair, bowing at the waist, her arms crossed over her chest. "And... thank you."

There is a moment when he looks at her in surprise. "Huh. That's a switch." Then he, too, bows. "An honour, Patience." Then he smiles, a smile with something more than a little broken in it. "Do try not to die. It might prove a little inconvenient." His smile fades. "I - " He cuts off whatever he was about to say, seeming to think better of it. "Until the next time, milady." He turns and heads back down the corridor, to the rest of the men.

"Rory," she says, looking to the man in question. "If we don't make it..." She bows again. "An honour, my friend."

He bows. "For me also, my lady. Patience."

They meet a small group of soldiers, who bow to her; they're in the right place. As they rush to appear subservient, to "milady" her, she shakes her head. "No need. Tonight, I'm one of you."

* * *

He is so very sick of goodbyes.

As he stands and watches the door to Castle Cousland, soldiers pressing to fill the gaps around him, he reflects on the night before Fort Drakon. The letter. It nearly wasn't written at all, his hands too fumbling, his words too inarticulate and trite as he sat at the desk. He knew at the time that he should've been with her, but he couldn't take the risk of her finding out what he was planning. That, and the fact that he wasn't sure he could look at her while he did this. Honestly, what did you say? What  _could_  you say?

_~~Well, at least this way you won't have to put up with my socks~~ _

_~~I wish~~ _

_~~I love~~ _

_~~I'm sorry~~ _

_Patience,_

_~~If I'm doing this~~ _ _If I've done it, and I can't be here to tell you this in person - which is looking likely - then I'm sorry. You have every right to hate me for this._

_However, know this: You are loved, always. I have no regrets, except for the fact that I couldn't stay._

_Live. Be happy._

He tucked it with the rest of his belongings, knowing that she'd find it... afterwards. That it wouldn't be nearly enough.

That, too, has been washed away by this "gift" from the Old Gods. It was never written; Fort Drakon hasn't happened yet, and he prays it never will.

He steels himself, his eyes on the door.

* * *

She doesn't know how long she paces, there in that small stretch of corridor; long enough that her knees begin to ache, her eyelids growing heavy. Funny, she thought the fear would keep her awake, but after a few hours, the nerves fade. One of the men starts talking to a friend of his, somewhere further down the corridor, about how he wishes they could play Wicked Grace. She wonders whether to scold him for saying such things, the situation being as serious as it is, but then thinks that he probably has the right idea about things. She's struggling to stave off boredom herself, ashamed as she is to admit it.

She is beginning to nod off when the call sounds down the corridor, echoing off the walls and jarring her awake. "All clear!"

She frowns at Rory. "What?"

He smiles at her. "No sign of them. He's passing down a message from the men posted up ahead."

"Three hours past dawn," the soldier shouts, "and no sightings! All clear!"

She sags against the wall in relief, all the breath going out of her, unable to help her smile. However, it fades as she realizes that before - before all this, before Alistair, in a year she never lived through - the castle was burning to the ground, and her family with it. She begins to make her way down the corridor, past the men, suddenly needing to find them and see them - her parents, Fergus, Oren, Oriana, Nan, Smith. All of them. Safe.

Ther's a small commotion ahead of her, and men move out of the way to let a large, enthusiastic mabari through; Smith bounds to her, seeming to feel the same as she did a moment ago, and she crouches to pet him, rubbing behind his ears. "Where were you, boy? I wanted to check, but I had things to do, I couldn't go down to the kennels, and I thought you'd find me..." He's been spending more and more time there, avoiding the main castle; he's seemed... sad, has been howling so much lately that she hasn't been able to let him sleep in her room. He was waking the whole castle up every night, but she still felt terrible. 

He lets out a happy bark, and she reels. "What's got you so merry, huh? Huh?" More rubbing of his ears and behind them; the big lump can't get enough. With her still holding him, he moves backwards, and she's dragged along with him. "Woah!" She hastily stands. "What is it you're so keen on?" He moves again, and she makes to follow him, veering past the men, apologizing as she goes.

She looks up from the mabari to find herself in the entrance hall, and stops, watching him in shock as he runs to...

"Smith?" Alistair says, frowning. "I'd wondered where you were."

Smith barks.

"Oh, and that's an explanation, is it?"

Affirmative bark.

"I see." A pause. "Wait, you're not gnawing my leg off... You remember me?"

Affirmative bark.

"Oh. Well, that's... new."

Smith returns to Patience, butts her leg and looks towards Alistair. She frowns at the mabari. "What are you trying to say?"

Bark. Movement back towards the Warden.

"What?"

Smith looks at her, as if expecting her to do something. When she doesn't move, he wanders back over to the Warden, who gives him a look of sympathy, shrugging. "I know. How do you think I feel?"

"Patience!" her father calls from a few feet away, and she goes to find him before she can wonder too much about what Alistair means, and how in the Maker's name he met her mabari.


	8. Grey

_It feels good when I’m out and about, able to swing a sword around and pretend that things are still simple, the way they were when we were just two Wardens on an impossible mission. Well, I say_ simple... _simpler, maybe._

 _The Alienage was almost a nice breather from the damn_ politics, _until I saw the squalor and the fact that there were children living there, children in the cages ready to be shipped off as slaves. Patience said that she was going to kill Loghain for this, and in that moment, I understood her perfectly._

* * *

Smith bounds off to be with his mistress, and Alistair watches him go, suddenly feeling more than a little hollow. It was good to have  _someone_ around who knew who he was, at least.

Duncan distracts him from his misery, the man having appeared at his side – he does that sometimes, silent as a shadow, and it makes Alistair nervous as much as it impresses him. It’s a skill the man shares with Patience. “The castle is safe.”

Apprehensively, Alistair wonders if they are going to have words about insubordination. “Yes, it would appear it is.” He hesitates, sighs. “I... I’m sorry about my behaviour earlier. I’ve been out of order. For quite a while now.” For all the Wardens are a brotherhood, people with deep bonds, deep friendships, rank is still rank; if he didn’t know the man so well, he’d never have dared to speak to him the way he did.

There is a pause as Duncan seems to mull over his words, and then he says quietly, “This is a tense time. Mistakes are easily forgiven.” He allows those words to stand between them, and then tells Alistair, “You said Patience was your friend.”

“I... yes?” Alistair tries, not really seeing where this is going, his eyes on Patience – speaking to her family, laughing at something her brother has said, looking like this is where she was always meant to be. Safe.

“The way you look at her says otherwise.”

Alistair swallows, praying that his cheeks aren’t colouring. “In your opinion.”

“It is plain to see, Alistair.” Duncan watches him shrewdly, and Alistair knows that his blush and his reaction have given him away. “I can’t help thinking of the things that you said, about the Blight.”

“Oh?” He watches the man, keeps his gaze steady, even though his skin is hot and everything in him is telling him to avoid this conversation at all costs.

“You said that only two of you remained. That you killed the Archdemon. Why did you kill it?”

“It was my duty,” Alistair replies as if it’s simple. Well, it’s true – that was a large part of it. “Riordan fell before he could finish it off” – he sees something in Duncan’s eyes flicker at that – “and one of us had to do it. I was the eldest Warden, and she was needed. I mean, she was the last Cousland heir, and I was just... some bastard from Redcliffe. Someone lucky enough not to die at Ostagar, and reasonable with a shield, but that was it.” He realizes the truth of the words as he says them. Now more than ever before, standing in the opulence of Castle Cousland, he wonders what she – a Lady – was doing with... well, _him._ He only tells one lie, and it’s what he says next: “Personal feelings didn’t really come into it.”

Duncan sighs. “I often wonder what you see when you look in a mirror, Alistair.”

He looks at the Warden-Commander, surprised. “What... what do you mean?”

Duncan shakes his head. “No matter. We should be setting off for Ostagar soon. We should probably go with the Couslands’ men.” His eyes fall to Patience. “And the Cousland heirs.”

“Please...” Alistair tries, one last time. “There’s no need.” Maybe if he argues one last time, the recruitment will never take place.

Duncan sighs. “There is every need.”

“But...” He looks into the older man’s eyes and knows that there’s no use in arguing – not now. Duncan has always been like this – steady as a rock, immoveable unless he wants to be otherwise, and Alistair isn’t going to win this one. “I see.” He looks round at the sound of shifting, of clanking armour and grumbling; the men are disbanding, off to their normal posts. “May I...?” He gestures awkwardly, unsure of what to do in this strange new environment: this castle, with its weird etiquette and impractical clothing and servants who look at you like they’re going to murder you if you use the wrong fork... It’s so very different from how it used to be in camp, where everyone was sweaty and tired and couldn’t be bothered to wash their socks unless you held a blade to their throat. (That had happened once, one of the younger elven recruits – with a far better sense of smell than the sock-owner in question, Alistair should probably add – eventually going a little mad and threatening the man with a dagger unless he got the grime-encrusted things to a lake, and quickly.) Patience always said that the castle’s formality drove her mad, and now he can see why.

“Of course,” Duncan says, and with a nod, Alistair allows himself to be dismissed.

He pretends not to see the commander watching him worriedly. He needs to stab something, and soon, and since there aren’t any hurlocks handy...

Perhaps it’s presumptuous to use someone else’s training yard without consulting them first, he doesn’t know, but the Couslands seem busy, and he isn’t entirely sure he cares right now, actually. Coiled tension from waiting all night and the memories of the nightmares they used to share – hers far worse than his – and that she’ll have to face all over again, stir him to have to _move,_ to do _something_ about the frustration building in his muscles. He asks a couple of guards, and soon he’s outside, sword drawn, looking at a straw dummy and exhaling.

Oh yes, _this_ he knows. This he can deal with.

He settles into one of the many stances taught to him at the Chantry – simple, defensive – and swings; before he knows it, he’s slashing at it, his posture correct but his thoughts gone. It’s nice, sometimes, to have a break from worrying, from thinking of anything but the next move.

He’s comfortable, in his element, until he sees dishevelled brown hair, leather armour – things as familiar as breathing to him. Patience settles on a dummy a few feet away, her daggers out, and he fights the urge just to watch her move, because that would be creepy. He used to for hours in camp, first surreptitiously and then later, when they both knew where they stood, with open admiration; the long, smooth lines of her limbs, the curve and sway of her hips, the way her hair moved with her – the strength lying under the softness. For all she called herself gangly, clumsy, put her blades in her hands and she _danced_. More than once her practices had ended up with them in a tent, and oh Maker he should really not be thinking of _that_ right now, not when he’s trying to see straight to use a sword. He pretends not to notice her, but that’s impossible when she clears her throat. Once, he ignores it, thinking it’s simply out of necessity, but then she does it again, and he looks at her with a hint of irritation. “Something you need?”

She holds up her daggers, offers him a small smile. “Would you like to spar? I tend to do it with Ser Gilmore, but since he’s otherwise occupied...”

He hesitates, wonders if he’s too distracted, and worries that in this state he’s too frazzled to pull his punches. “I... don’t know if that’s...”

She seems to sense his anxiety. “A rematch? You bested me in the forest, and I’d rather like to even things out.”

He pauses. This isn’t a good idea. This _really_ isn’t a good idea. “I guess I could.” He shrugs. He’s stronger, but he’s _seen_ her move, sparred with her this way enough times before... “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she tells him, and then her daggers are out and he’s parrying and gritting his teeth at the impact of metal on metal, moving backwards and waiting for her next move, circling. “I’ve been recruited,” she tells him conversationally. She lunges forwards, the dagger going for his sternum – somewhere it can’t cause any real damage, with the mail he’s wearing – and he intercepts it with his sword, the motion causing a sharp, scraping _shrik._ He puts his weight behind the blade, driving her back several steps, and she stumbles slightly. She quickly regains her balance.

“Well, uh... good for you,” he tells her, slightly breathlessly. They circle each other, each watching for a weakness, for something that will give the other person away.

“You don’t sound particularly happy about that,” she notes, still crouching, her feet still moving.

He sees it then: the exact moment she decides to move, her foot sweeping down to kick at his ankle, unbalance him. He stands his ground, feet planted steady, knowing she can’t match him in strength, and sees the surprise written all over her face – it’s one of her trademark moves, one that it took him far too long to learn to avoid. He realizes that he’s enjoying this, grinning, something wonderfully familiar in the dance of the two of them. “You’re going easy on me,” he tells her.

They circle each other; she gestures with her dagger, at a safe distance. “And _you_ have an advantage. You know all my moves.”

That brings it home – her sudden, easy acceptance. She believes him. He raises an eyebrow, telling her, “And according to _you,_ I’m just a big clumsy oaf. So, tell me...” A sudden lunge forwards that he’s quite proud of, his blade stopping just short of her stomach – a move that in reality would cause a slow, painful death, something he isn’t exactly keen to give her. “... who exactly has the advantage here?”

She knocks his blade away with her own, dancing back to regard him from a distance in the time it takes him to blink. “Why don’t you want me joining the Wardens? I heard your conversation with Duncan.”

His surprise doesn’t throw his stance or his grip off even slightly; he knows her to well to think that she’s above distractions. “In the hall?”

“Before. You said something about side-effects. Nightmares. Children... so, infertility?”

He swallows. “I really shouldn’t...” He heaves a sigh, sheathes his sword. He knows he shouldn’t tell her, that it’s against all the Warden protocols, and he certainly didn’t the first time, dancing awkwardly around her questions and praying she didn’t weasel the answers out of him. It was his duty to the Wardens. Oh, _sod_ his duty. He’s died once for it already.

“Perhaps you should.” Her voice is hard, her eyes boring into him.

“Yes. They’re all side-effects of the Joining. It’s brutal, and it’s hard, and you might well die. And if you don’t, you’ll be haunted by the remnants of the ritual for the rest of your life. Happy now?”

“But?”

“ _But?”_

“I sense a but.”

“There _is_ no but, Patience. Being a Warden is a burden. That’s _why_ it’s an honour!”

“Yet this will allow me to be best-equipped to fight the Blight.”

“I...”

“To protect my people.”

_“Patience - !”_

“I’m not the oldest Cousland, the needed heir. I am not truly in the army. My parents are running the castle perfectly well. This is something I can do. This is somewhere I am _needed.”_

“Patience,  _stop!_  There is no  _need,_ you don’t have to prove anything. This is...”  
  
“Alistair, Duncan almost had to pull the Right of Conscription on my father. I’m already recruited. From what I hear, Duncan wants to start the journey to Ostagar tomorrow, and I’ll be coming with you.”

“I know that you’re brave. We’ve all seen it. But this – this isn’t bravery, it’s stupidity. This isn’t why you should be joining the Wardens. It’s not like I can stop it happening, but... this isn't  _right._ "  
  
She sighs, her shoulders slumping. "You think I'm doing this to make myself feel better?"  
  
He considers lying. "Partly," he says. "Though I do think you're brave. I was honest about that. I guess you must be feeling like the spare heir."  
  
She turns away from him, leaning a shoulder on a training dummy. "That's part of it. I mean, isn't this  _better?_ Better than just being someone useless, married off if I'm lucky? I don't want to be a trophy wife, or grabbing at influence. This might be a short life, but what if it's a happier one?" He takes a few steps forwards, unsure what to say, what to do, and slowly she looks back at him. She tells him quietly, "You seem happy, after all."  
  
"Maybe I'm not the best person to ask. I thought I'd be locked in the Chantry for the rest of my life.  _Anything_  would have seemed better in comparison."  
  
"So you were a templar?"  
  
He crosses his arms, scuffs a boot on the ground. "Nearly. I never completed my final vows. Duncan conscripted me from right under the Revered Mother's nose."  
  
In the silence that follows, there is a small, sharp inhale. "The Chantry. Eamon ordered for you to be taken there. I wondered why you were so tense when Father mentioned him."  
  
She can't be -   
  
"Isolde hated you. She came to the same conclusion... I did... She thought you were Eamon's..." She's talking faster now, mostly to herself, but then she turns, seeming afraid. "Alistair, why do I know this? I don't even know you, you've been in the castle, what, two days?"  
  
"About that," he confirms, taking a step towards her as she stares at him in distress.  
  
"You told me in... in Lothering. I've never been to Lothering." She raises her hands to her head. "What's happening to me? Why am I so sure of these things?"  
  
"Patience." He takes one last step forwards, puts a hand on her arm. "You need to calm down. You're going to lose your mind if you don't stop and  _breathe_."  
  
"I..." Her breathing calms a little, the fear leaving her face, as she appears to be distracted by something. She stares at him, then her eyes move downwards; he doesn't understand at first, until she raises two fingers, rests them at his neck. "Where's the amulet?"  
  
He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet. Her touch burns, bringing back memories - cherished ones, but ones he really can't afford to focus on right now, lest he do something stupid. "I... still in the Arl's study, I suppose."  
  
Her eyes are still on his skin, and she swallows, snatching back her hand. "I'm sorry. That was awfully... I don't even know you - "  
  
He takes a couple of breaths, clearing his head, trying to get his tongue to obey him. "You know me," he tells her kindly, simply. "Even if it's taken you a while to remember."  
  
She nods wordlessly, her eyes on the ground. "I... I should be going. Duncan would like to see you."  
  
"Right. Patience - "  
  
"I need to pack." Her voice is firmer, and now she's walking away from him. She turns at the last moment, giving him a small smile. "Thank you. For the practice. And the... the reassurance."  
  
And then she's walking to the castle, and he's pretending not to watch her go. After a minute, he sighs, reluctantly following her.


	9. Just a Bad Dream

_Lay down next to me_  
Don't listen when I scream  
Bury your doubts and fall asleep  
Find out  
 _I was just a bad dream_

  **~ Goodbye - Apparat**

 

 

_Denerim. This journey is too familiar. I've used this path so many times in the past - I swear, I know it as well as the back of my hand - but it's never been so weighed down with expectations before, with things none of us wants to talk about._

_Patience keeps smiling at me, making little observations - trying to reassure me. It's not working._

* * *

He keeps his distance on the way back into the castle, the awkwardness from the training yard still very much there, and is too glad for his own peace of mind when she ascends the stairs, off to find her gear. He keeps walking.

Duncan greets him with a stern gaze that makes him fidget. Maker, what's he supposed to have done wrong now? "Alistair. We leave for Ostagar tomorrow. I would advise you to get some rest."  
  
Alistair gets the idea. "Yes, ser." He turns and begins to walk away, when he's interrupted by a call behind him.  
  
"And Alistair?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Try and welcome Patience. Do not make this any harder than it has to be. She has many trials ahead of her."

* * *

 Patience grits her teeth, blinking as she stares down at the shirt she's wrenched from her wardrobe. Her head aches, her eyes are watering, and she has no  _idea_ what just happened. One moment they were arguing, the next... She shuts her eyes, remembering the sudden onslaught of images in her head.

First the man's invaded her home, now he's found his way into her memories.  _Wonderful._  
  
She knew he seemed familiar, but that could easily have been because she'd seen him around the castle. This is something altogether newer and more frightening. She shoves the thought away, grabs a pair of breeches and throws them on the bed, on top of the shirt. Nothing's been the same since he arrived, and her nightmares have grown worse. Maybe fresh air, a change of scenery, will do her good. Certainly, she can hope.  
  
There is a newer memory, one that slithers its way into her head no matter how much she attempts to stop it, to suppress it. One of her fingers on his skin and the hitch in his breathing, and how familiar it all felt... She shakes her head. No; much too forward. Her cheeks burn at the thought of it, and she resumes her search for clothes, praying it will distract her. 

* * *

He is sitting in Ostagar, on one of the ruined stone walls. The ruin's empty, the bustle of soldiers and traders and the king's entourage long gone. Wind whistles through the stone, ruffling his hair. Opposite him, Urthemiel is on the ground, cross-legged, looking curiously at a Joining chalice. He turns it over in his delicate fingers, inspecting it as if he's wondering what makes it quite so special. 

Alistair finds the sight angers him, stirring something unpleasant in his gut, but can't quite name why. He grits his teeth, but looks around and... oh. Oh, right. Well, if he was angry before, this certainly isn't helping. "I know where we are, you know."  
  
Urthemiel looks up. " _Hm?_ "  
  
"This is where I first met Patience. Look, I don't know what you're playing at, but..."  
  
The god raises an eyebrow. " _'Playing at'?"_  
  
"She's remembering. Before, in the practice yard - she's remembering pieces of our life together."  
  
Urthemiel frowns. "I _told you that she would remember enough not to be afraid of you."_  
  
"It's more than that. It's like she's remembering... everything. Why would she need to remember Redcliffe? And her  _mabari_ remembers me. Why - ?"  
  
For a moment, something almost like doubt crosses the god's eyes, then, whatever it was, it's gone. _"You are overthinking things,"_ Urthemiel interrupts, his voice firm. " _You_ _are assigning meaning where there is none."  
  
_ "But - "  
 __  
"You are seeing what you want to see, Alistair. That is all there is to it."  
  
Urthemiel's probably right. He's so panicky, so desperate, that he's seeing patterns in clouds, faces in fires. "Maybe you're right, but... what now? I just let her come to Ostagar and be tainted? How is that right?"  
  
Urthemiel looks down at the stone floor, a hand under his chin, and then says, " _What is right and what is needed are not always the same thing. You will go with her, and you will show her how to be a Warden."_  
  
"And if I don't want to? If I walk away?"  
  
 _"You will be a coward, your country will suffer, and you won't see her again. I will make sure of it. Would you like her to be one of the Grey Wardens that dies at Ostagar, or one of the nobles' offspring imprisoned by Howe? Feel free to choose. I'm sure I can think of other fates, if those aren't enough..."_  
  
He shows his palms. "All right. I get the idea. I'll stay."  
  
 _"Good."_  
  
"I'm  _really_  glad I got to kill you."  
  
Urthemiel just laughs.  
  
They both look up in shock as a scream cuts through Ostagar, echoing off the walls, shattering the peace Urthemiel has created... and the dream.

* * *

 She dreams of flames.

She is running, and there are screams around her; she has to  _be_  somewhere, there isn't enough  _time_... Something scorches her, sparks flying into her face, and she gasps, her fingers to her cheek. Leather gloves, bloodstained ones. There's a longsword in her other hand. Why? She only ever uses daggers.  
  
A roar ahead of her, and her eyes focus through the ash and the bodies; there are armies fighting, shouting orders at each other, and above them...  
  
A great dragon, bigger than anything she's ever seen. She knows, suddenly, that it has to die, and the way it must die. Yes, this she knows - this is what the last year has prepared them for. ("Them"? Who are they?) She's aware, fleetingly, of an ache in her chest, a sorrow at the thought of it, but not entirely sure why.  
  
"We have to end this."  
  
She turns at the sound of his voice, and in the chaos, he is steady, something she is sure of. He watches her, sword and shield ready, his breathing heavy. She knows his name - she's heard it many times before, she knows instinctively - but then she's distracted by the look he gives her; the regret in his eyes. Things progress oddly, moments blending into each other and stretching impossibly. She's arguing, the words lost to faded memories and the roar of the battle around them, begging him for something. To stay. To  _stop._ He unstraps and drops the shield - certain, unyielding, as always - and argues back. He is smiling, and his eyes are bright.  
  
She's shouting at him now, her voice hoarse, and she hears herself pleading with him not to leave her. He laughs harshly, no humour in it, says something she can't place... and then he is kissing her, desperately and without finesse, silencing her words. He tastes of blood and salt. He escapes her grip easily - he has always been stronger than her. He runs, and she will never be fast enough to save him. There is a light that blinds her, painting the inside of her eyelids white.   
  
She screams as if her heart is being ripped from her chest.

* * *

 She wakes covered in sweat, her throat aching and tears running down her cheeks; suddenly she is crying, even though she can't remember why, the details of the dream lost to her now. All she knows is that she has lost something precious, that she has forgotten something important... She's sobbing for something she doesn't understand, for something taken away from her that she can't comprehend - an impossible, aching loss that will never heal. 

She buries her face in her pillow, anger at herself and pain from the dream warring for dominance, praying the rest of the house won't hear. The first time she had one of the dreams, Fergus burst into the room brandishing a sword, convinced she was being murdered - it would have been amusing if it wasn't so awful. She managed to compose herself enough to explain, and since then there has been a tacit agreement between her, her family and the guards not to react unless she calls for them.  
  
She jumps at a knock on the door.  
  
After considering her situation - she's only wearing one of Fergus' old shirts - she attempts to get her breathing under control; it doesn't work, but her tears stop, and she roughly wipes them away. She peels back the covers, hastily pulls on a pair of breeches and pads across the room, opening her door with a tentative hand. Alistair hovers outside the door. "I heard you scream," he tells her quietly.  
  
Embarrassment rises in her, and she wants to hide from his concerned gaze. She raises a hand to her sleep-tangled hair. "It was a nightmare, nothing more. No need to worry."  
  
"I guessed." She notices that he isn't carrying a weapon, seems more worried about her welfare than any mysterious intruder. "You know," he tells her, with a hint of a smile, "you aren't supposed to get the nightmares 'til after the Joining."  
  
"Your wit astounds me," she replies, her voice flat.  
  
His smile widens. " _There_  we go. That's the cheery girl I know."  
  
She can't help it - her lips are smiling before her brain has any say in the matter, the ache in her chest lessening. "You seem happier. Am I going to be stuck with this Alistair all the way to Ostagar?"  
  
"Oh, you know me - I bounce back. And Duncan's ordered me to stop being such an idiot and help you, so I suppose you are." His brow creases with sudden worry. "Why were you crying?"  
  
"You have nightmares as well, don't you? If you're a Warden?"  
  
He seems to mull her question over, not quite knowing how to answer. He raises an eyebrow. "I... yes?"  
  
Tiredness wipes away the events of the day, the awkwardness between them, and suddenly she is speaking, her guard down. "Do you ever get a feeling, like... something's missing?" Oh, Maker's breath, the tears are returning; she struggles desperately to hold them back, but knows she's failing. He's caught her vulnerable - half-asleep and foolish. She pauses to compose herself, refusing to cry in front of him.  
  
"Missing? No, I don't think I do." He reaches out, takes her hand, and she can't bring herself to protest. "What's missing?"  
  
She shakes her head. "I don't know. I can never remember. I just know I've... lost it, whatever it is, and I'll never find it again."  
  
"Oh, Patience." He sighs, pauses to think. "Would a cup of tea help?"  
  
She swallows. "Yes. I... I'd appreciate that very much."  
  
"Well then," he says, smiling, "Whatever the Lady desires..."  
  
"Let me get my shoes." He nods, and she does.   
  
They make their quiet way down to the kitchens, her breathing still not quite calm. At regular intervals he glances at her sympathetically, opening his mouth as if to say something and then closing it again. She sits at the kitchen table, slumping in her exhaustion and hearing her companion searching through the cupboards. "The cupboard nearest the pots," she directs him.  
  
"Right." The sounds of things clanking, a fire being lit, and soon enough he returns with two cups of something steaming, that smells vaguely herbal, taking a seat opposite her. She smiles weakly at him, and he returns it, but no words are exchanged as she sips the concoction, waiting for her weariness to overwhelm her.

* * *

She wakes to morning light and birdsong. She is in her bed, and knows for a fact that she fell asleep at the table downstairs. Again, she feels embarrassed, but then she remembers: Ostagar. Today she sets out with the Wardens.


	10. Path

_That's the last of the treaties - the last of the allies. Wow. I feel like we're proper Wardens now, rallying Ferelden behind us. It's... still hard to believe, if I'm honest. But so is what comes next - and not in a good way._

* * *

She's still sitting and mulling that slightly daunting thought over when there's a small knock at the door. She untangles herself from the covers, tripping over them as she gets out of bed, and opens the door.

It probably says something that she's surprised to see a servant rather than a sheepish Grey Warden looking back at her. "The Warden Commander requests your presence, milady," the girl says, inclining her head. Her pose is subservient, her eyes constantly flickering between Patience as the floor as if she isn't quite sure where to look - probably new, Patience realizes, and can't help but feel sorry for her. "He says that he and the men will be setting off soon."  
  
She smiles. "Thank you. Tell him I'll be down soon."  
  
"Is... is there anything else you need?" the servant attempts, her voice quiet, the question awkward.  
  
"No, thank you. I can attend to things myself."  
  
The servant nods, and then she's gone, walking down the corridor, her nervousness evident in her hunched posture and her quick steps; she's eager to get back to the kitchens, to the people who she feels will understand her. That's fair enough, Patience supposes.  
  
She closes the door and then turns to regard her room, placing her palms against the door. The coolness of the wood is something she knows - something simple and grounding in this world where a man can spout tales of a future that never happened and she's going to be a Grey Warden. She exhales heavily, listening to the beats of her heart, and then gets to her feet like the Cousland she is - there's no time to be afraid now, after even arguing with her father to be recruited.  
  
Is she afraid? Of course. Alistair's words aren't the sort to be forgotten easily - she thinks about the things he mentioned, about the side-effects...  
  
No. Today, she is useful, not some accessory to hang off a noble's arm at a ball. She will be a Warden, esteemed and respected, and will be able to see Ferelden from the ground, not a castle. What she said to him was true, though she's sure he took it as an excuse: she has been taught all her life that the nobility does what it must; there is a Blight, and the people who placed her family where it is now need her. If they need her sword, rather than her diplomacy? Well, she's happy enough with that.  
  
She takes one more deep breath, then she walks over to her dressing table, putting the thoughts out of her head. She wants to bathe, but she doesn't want to keep Duncan waiting, and she's sure that with several sweaty soldiers on a long walk, it won't be the most fragrant journey anyway. With an eye on her looking glass, she makes a cursory attempt to tame her hair, combing through it and tying it back - it's something reassuringly mundane to focus on, at least. She pats it a few times, dragging her fingers through loose pieces and adjusting things until less of it sticks up at odd angles, and gives herself a small smile in the mirror. It's only as she's buckling up her leathers that she realizes the smile is still there, and it's genuine. She heaves her pack onto her shoulders and exits her room.

When she makes her way downstairs, the dining hall is empty. She hears voices, however, and moves through to the entrance hall. There stand Alistair, Duncan and Fergus, as well as Father. He's probably come to see her off, or to try once more to dissuade her - Void, Alistair will probably join in. She meets the Warden's eyes as she thinks it, and before she can really understand why, anger suddenly surges in her. Then she remembers last night, the anger quickly replaced by embarrassment. Alistair gives her a small, encouraging smile, but she quickly looks away.  
  
Duncan is discussing something with Fergus, but he stops, looking at Patience as he senses her eyes upon him. "I see you've joined us. Are you ready?"  
  
"Very," she replies, offering him a smile; she hopes it doesn't betray her last-minute nerves.  
  
Duncan nods. "I see." He glances at Fergus. "Can you ready the troops?" Patience remembers, belatedly, that they'll be walking with her family's men - and Fergus; her brother will be with her, she mustn't forget that - and feels a little better at the thought.

"Certainly," Fergus replies. Patience expects him to walk straight out of the room, but instead he looks at her and says, "Are you sure you're alright? Wouldn't want my little sister fainting in the middle of the walk to Ostagar." It's a joke, but she hears the intent behind it.  
  
She glares at him - only half-jokingly, she's nervous enough as it is without him chipping in too – and counters, “I’m fine. I have rations for the journey. Something tells me that I won’t be the Cousland that swoons delicately from the heat.” At Fergus’ frown, she elaborates, “One of us is wearing much lighter armour.”  
  
She doesn’t visibly react to the snort from behind her – one that definitely came from Alistair’s direction – but smiles sweetly at her brother, waiting for the reaction she knows will come; sure enough, he plays along, glancing briefly down at his mail, and glares back at her before walking out of the hall.  
  
When she looks back to the Wardens, Alistair is smiling. There’s fondness in it, and a familiarity she can’t quite understand. “Maker,” he sighs, “the things you used to say to me about heavy plate.”  
  
Despite her remaining embarrassment – she can’t help but feel that she gave too much of herself to him last night, assuming familiarity that isn’t yet between them; she isn’t the one with a year of memories and a friendship that never happened – she recognizes the attempt at starting a conversation when she hears it. She humours him, eager to do away with the memories of the night before. “You wore plate on the road?” she asks, with mild interest rather than the outrage he was probably hoping for. “It’s impossible to move in.”  
  
He crosses his arms and smiles at her a trifle smugly, obviously glad to be getting back into the swing of things. She wonders if this was what he was expecting when he woke up – this easy banter and simple trust, from when he wore heavy plate, shared stories and killed a dragon Patience has never even seen. “Well, I did try explaining that one of us is a templar initiate, rather than a skinny rogue who twirls around the battlefield.”  
  
The outrage may be amused rather than truly angry, but this time it’s most definitely there. “Twirls?” she echoes sceptically. “Says the man who threatened to do the Remigold before the darkspawn. In a dress.” She only realizes what she’s said when the words are hanging in the air and Alistair is staring at her.

“Of all the things to remember about our first fight, it had to be that,” he murmurs. He manages to tear his gaze away from hers and look at Duncan, faking a casual manner. “It’s good to be in touch with your feminine side?” he tries with a shrug. When Duncan’s raised eyebrow doesn’t move, he looks at Father, his awkwardness palpable. “I... apologize for that, Teyrn Cousland. I suppose I’m just too used to soldiers’ manners.”   
  
Father shakes his head, but he's smiling. "And I am in the company of soldiers. I'd expect no less."  
  
"Patience," Duncan says, calling her attention back to him, "you said you would like to take your mabari. Now would be a good time to fetch Smith."  
  
Patience nods and begins the walk down a corridor, to the kennels. She hears a murmur behind her, but doesn't pay much attention to it until there's a soft touch at her elbow, there and then gone just as quickly. She jumps at the contact, looks to find its source, and finds Alistair next to her. He seems far more awkward than he was just a few moments ago. "I... ah... we both have things to do, and I'll go, but..." He pauses. "Any more nightmares?"  
  
She keeps walking. "No. None after I returned to my room."  
  
"Right. Well... good."  
  
There's a silence then, thick and obvious between them, until Patience asks, "Did you carry me to bed last night?"  
  
If he looked awkward before... "Yes. Sorry about that." He looks away from her, a hand to the back of his neck. "Force of habit, I guess. I... forget, sometimes." He clears his throat. "Won't happen again. I just thought you'd be cold. I mean, once you've slept in the Deep Roads a table isn't so bad, but..." He trails off.  
  
"The Deep Roads?" she can't help but ask, carrying on down the corridor.  
  
He falls into step with her. "Long story, that. We had to enlist the aid of the dwarves, and we ended up looking for a Paragon - well, two, actually."  
  
"Branka," she says, suddenly knowing what the name means as it comes out of her mouth. She remembers a madwoman, a red-haired dwarf who constantly had ale on his breath, an anvil. "We killed her, didn't we?"  
  
She notices the small intake of breath that he tries to hide. "We had to, in the end. Oghren... didn't take it well. She was his wife, after all. Do you remember anything else?"  
  
"I..." (Falling; having the life drained from her, the world going black at the edges; a bright flash, and someone calling her name, holding her hand...) She shuts her eyes, leaning a shoulder against the wall. "I don't - I was dying?" It's the best explanation she can think of. She opens her eyes slowly, tentatively. Her head is throbbing; light stings her eyes, the afterimages of the flash whiting out her vision every time she blinks.  
  
He nods, glances away from her. "We nearly lost you. It was lucky we had a healer on hand. Darkspawn Emissary surprised us." She frowns and he explains, "Darkspawn have mages too. It's complicated."  
  
They're turning a corner and then they're out in the grounds. She jogs to the kennels, and when Smith sees her, he runs to meet her, meaning that soon enough she's knocked to the ground by five and a half feet of slobbering mabari. She avoids his tongue, and he lets her push him away. Slightly winded, she gets up and pats him on the head. As she turns and heads back to the castle, he keeps pace with her; he notices Alistair waiting for them a few feet away, and when Smith reaches him he gently butts the Warden on the leg in recognition.  
  
"Hey, boy," he says tiredly. "Looking forward to Ostagar?" At Smith's whine, he replies, "No, me neither."  
  
"You're not?" Patience asks him with a frown. "Why?"  
  
He looks at her askance, as if she's a fool, letting out a small, bitter laugh. "Where would you like me to start?" He swallows, turning his eyes to the corridor ahead, and it's obvious he's only half-seeing what's in front of him. "I lost nearly everyone I cared about at that place. And then I had to return and walk past their corpses. Cheery." Another defensive, humourless laugh. He senses the unasked question emanating from her direction. "Warden business. The fellow that we ran into in the Bannorn." He pauses, as if waiting for something.

She realizes that he's wondering if she'll have another flash of memory. She shakes her head, feeling like an idiot.  
  
"Nothing? Fair enough." He hums, seeming to consider that as they walk. "You'll live, by the way."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm sorry about trying to scare you away from the Joining. If things turn out the way they did before - which, let's be honest, they probably will - you'll live." He taps a finger to his forehead. "Future, remember?"  
  
She almost laughs at that, though she doubts he's understand why - very little else has been on her mind since they ran into each other in the woods. "Yes, I remember."  
  
"Though come to think of it, I'm not so sure about how things will turn out. Now we've changed things..." He sighs. "It's like a tent. Sort one pole out and the rest of it falls down."  
  
"Alistair?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"That wasn't the best analogy I've ever heard."  
  
"No," he agrees, with a sheepish twist of his lips, "it... really wasn't, was it?"  
  
She laughs a little, and they carry on down the corridor. Towards Duncan, and Ostagar.

* * *

That hint of a laugh - that small, simple thing - is enough for him. For a moment they're on the road again, making their way to a future neither of them has any idea about. Just two Wardens, Smith and a Blight.

But less pleasant thoughts intrude, breaking his peace of mind. Patience really is good at dredging up the worst memories, isn't she?  
  
Ostagar - both times - and the Deep Roads. The emissary ambushed them - they were all tired and on edge anyway, he swears the Deep Roads actually have a  _physical effect_  on people - and got Patience with a well-placed spell to drain life. Of course; one of the few things he couldn't knock away with a shield. He surprised it with what he still maintains is the cleanest, most powerful smite he's ever managed while Wynne and Leliana took down the others, and then spent what could have been minutes - or hours, or days, he's not sure but it felt like ages and yet somehow  _not enough time_  - begging her to wake up. (He may not have Archdemon dreams anymore, but he's got more than enough material to provide him with nightmares for the rest of his life.  _Great._ )  
  
He runs through the possibilities and the obligations in his head. (Try not to cringe at the memories Ostagar brings. Save the Wardens. Oust Loghain. And then... and then request an audience with the king. Much as it pains him, he actually has to have an extended conversation with his... his... Cailan. King Cailan. Yes, that's easier and less mind-numbingly terrifying to think about. Yes, the thought of conversing with the ruler of his country is just, oh, no big deal in comparison to the thought of talking to his... half-brother. There, he said it. It's still not easy, and it still doesn't feel  _real_ , no matter how many years he's been aware of  _whose,_ exactly, the blood in his veins and the nose in the mirror are.)  
  
Yes, this will be  _so_  easy. He wonders what in the Maker's name Urthemiel actually expected him to  _achieve_. A sick little part of his mind almost prefers the thought of two Wardens against the entire darkspawn horde to  _this_.

He sees the look Bryce Cousland sends to Patience as they come in - the look of a father worried for his daughter - and notices that Fergus has joined them again. He doesn't miss the curious look Duncan gives him as he enters the room, or the fact that that curiosity is mirrored in Fergus' eyes, too. He forgets that during the Blight, fumbling as his attempts to court Patience were, he didn't have a suspicious big brother to contend with.  
  
He glances at Patience and asks her quietly, "Said all your goodbyes?" It's too late to go back and do it, but the question still seems like a good gesture; he understands that there are people she's leaving behind.  
  
She nods, and he resists the temptation to ask who until she says, "Yesterday, mostly. Mum knows, Nan told me to enjoy going and getting myself killed, and Rory thinks I'll do fine. Oren just wants to come with me." She smiles at that, a delicate bittersweet thing that he's afraid of wiping off her face. (She found her nephew dead in the same room as his mother. He doesn't want to think about that now - it never happened.)  
  
They reach the little group. Duncan asks her, "Are you ready?" At her nod, he says, "Then we'll set off. We will be heading the march along with Fergus." He looks at the Teyrn. "Teyrn Cousland? If you would like to say goodbye to your daughter, now is the time."  
  
Patience's father - and it's still, somehow, odd to think that, to think that this man is alive and Alistair has met him - turns to her, puts two large hands on her shoulders and tells her, "Do us proud, my girl. I know you will."   
  
She pauses a moment, seeming on the threshold of something, before she throws her arms round her father, hugging him tightly. Alistair looks away from the embrace, feeling as if he's intruding on something private, but he still catches the Teyrn's quiet words: "Come back safe." (That murmured sentence makes him feel ill; avoiding the massacre is no guarantee that she'll come home whole, or happy. But he'll do his best.)  
  
The two Couslands separate, and Duncan tells them, "Come. Warden, recruit."  
  
Patience manages to rustle up one last smile for her father, whose gaze falls behind her, onto Fergus. "Keep her out of mischief for me, won't you lad?"  
  
"You say that like it's possible!" Fergus counters, and then he's stepping to join Patience and Alistair as they stand with Duncan. The joking boy is gone, replaced by someone Alistair can easily see being Teyrn, and tells them, "I'll marshal the troops." (But then, why is it a surprise? Fergus is the Cousland heir. He's probably been groomed all his life to step up and play the part of Highever's Teyrn. Alistair wonders if the same is true of Patience. They both grew up in luxury, have had expectations place upon them and training that is utterly alien to him. He remembers Arl Eamon telling Teagan to put him forward as a contender for the throne, and feels ill once again.)  
  
Duncan regards the other man for a moment with that dark, ever-so-slightly unsettling gaze of his, and then says, "Yes, please do."  
  
Patience takes one last look over her shoulder as they make their way to the great castle doors; servants gather to open them, and then the fresh, clean air of a warm Fereldan day is in his nostrils, and this he understands. It's a little like coming home. He's on the road to Ostagar, with Duncan leading them and - he notes with a little pleasant surprise - Patience next to him, a position she seems to have automatically fallen into. Smith trots happily along at her heels, Fergus next to him, and then...  
  
And then Alistair sees the very large, very imposing army standing before them awaiting orders, and any sense of familiarity he might have felt falls away. He wasn't here for this - he was already at Ostagar, happily losing drinking contests and trying to make a stew that didn't taste like dishwater and rat (even if it actually  _was_  dishwater and rat, which it may well have been; their rations weren't exactly the best, and they'd often end up staring enviously - and hungrily - at the king's soldiers and the supplies they got).  
  
They go down steps that Alistair barely registers, still staring at the sheer amount of soldiers before them, and then begin the walk to the front of the army, around the men.

When they stand at the head of the crowd, Fergus lifts his hands and calls, "Begin the march!"  
  
As one, like some great monster out of a storybook, the men begin to move, and Alistair is reminded uncomfortably of the darkspawn horde, disorganized and ugly as the creatures were. He's glad when they swiftly turn, facing the road ahead, and begin the journey.

* * *

As Patience suspected it would be, the first few hours of the walk are long, uncomfortable and  _very_  sweaty. The walk through Highever was fine enough - it was interesting, the people cheering them on, and most importantly  _downhill_. Now, a couple of hours in, they're all beginning to feel the strain. The sun is beating down on them all, and even Fergus - loathe to admit weakness as he is - takes out a handkerchief from some unknown place underneath his armour and mops his brow; Alistair just settles for a swift, grimacing swipe with his hand. Duncan, meanwhile, is steadfast, unyielding in front of them, and Patience wonders how he does it.

She wouldn't normally notice all these trivial details, but, truth be told, she's bored. Deeply bored. She's tried keeping track of the scenery, but they've been walking this forest trail for an hour now and every blighted tree is beginning to look the same. She considers trying to begin a conversation, but the men around her seem intent on the path, the mission, and she isn't entirely sure what she would say, anyway.

So she's surprised when a few minutes later, Alistair says next to her, "You know, I've always found that for long, boring walks like these, it's good to have something to keep you occupied." When she rises to the bait and looks at him, he's watching her with the hint of a smile that's all too knowing. "Conversation," he suggests wth a tone that's overly casual, "or, I don't know... 'I spy, with my little eye - '"  
  
"And you can stop that before one of us dies," she interrupts, giving him a look that would sour milk. She has far too many memories of trying to pass the time that way with Fergus.  
  
He seems to find that awfully amusing, his lips twisting as he struggles not to laugh. "Thought so. That used to be a surefire way to drive you crazy."  
  
She hears a snigger at her other side, and when she turns her wrathful gaze on Fergus, he just shrugs, seeming utterly unashamed. "He really does know you well."  
  
Alistair's smile fades as she returns her gaze to him. "In all fairness, it's good to have something to stop the monotony from getting too much. The Wardens always used to talk a lot."  
  
Patience thinks for a moment, then asks, "You said you were conscripted from the Chantry. That was... six months ago, you told me. But you've never explained  _how_  you were conscripted."  
  
"There's a story behind it. But it's a long one. And a boring one. And I'm sure you don't really want to know..."  
  
"In case you haven't noticed, we aren't exactly lacking for time," Fergus chips in.  
  
Alistair runs a sheepish hand through his hair. "Well, I guess it starts with the tournament..."

* * *

After the telling of  _that_  particular story - which mostly involved mumbling things about how he's still not entirely sure why Duncan even picked him - and several hours of hearing about Fergus and Elissa's childhood embarrassments, Alistair is more than ready to sleep. The army have been called to stop, and have made an efficient (but still sprawling) camp away from the main path - it spreads through most of the woods. Night has fallen, and he's sitting outside his tent, absentmindedly polishing his shield - it's comforting, having something for his hands to do. 

  
He looks up as he hears footsteps, and then suddenly Fergus Cousland is sitting companionably next to him, looking up at the stars with mild interest and asking him casually, "So, what are your intentions toward my sister?"


	11. In Dreams

_I'm marvelling, because she's just told me that she loves me too. So_  casually _, so simply, like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like she couldn't imagine saying anything else._  
  
 _Think of a witty line... Think of_ something...

* * *

 “What?” he blurts out awkwardly, nearly dropping the shield. Oh, Maker. He cringes at his own idiocy. He looks quickly around to check that the subject of their conversation isn't nearby, then, with a concerted effort, he carries on polishing, carefully not looking at Patience’s very not-dead and very shrewd brother. “I mean, what sort of, ah, intentions are we talking about here? Because that could mean anything – "

“You follow her round more than Smith does, and you look at her like she’s the stars and Andraste combined,” Fergus states, with frightening simplicity.  
  
“It’s just the shock of it all. It doesn’t  _mean_  anything.” He sighs. “I don’t  _have_  any intentions towards Patience. I know what you’re saying, and, well... don’t. Stop saying it. I’m not some, some drooling lecher.”  
  
“Warden – " A pause, a reconsideration. “Alistair. I know what a lovesick fool looks like."  
  
“Oh, thank you,” he mutters furiously as he polishes, “it’s nice to know it’s that bloody obvious, now if we could get the killing-me-in-the-woods-due-to-brotherly-concern part over with fairly quickly, that’d be good...” He realizes half a moment too late what he’s said.  
  
“Meaning it’s true?” At Alistair’s conspicuous silence, Fergus presses on, “What was she, a wartime infatuation? A friend that never looked at you twice?”  
  
Alistair considers, for a moment, constructing a nice little lie - something about how they were only ever friends but he’d briefly considered trying to court her; all very simple, all very nice, and it wouldn’t leave any of the mess the truth will...   
  
"You see," Fergus continues, his suspicious eyes not matching his overly-casual tone, "I've been thinking: it seems awfully convenient, this arrangement. This way, you're with us - with her - and she's afraid, relying on you. We're all relying on you. I know what your commander said, and I want to believe you're a good man..."  
  
Usually, he'd sit and take it (like he always does, something small and petty in the back of his mind adds). Maybe it's the sting of tiredness behind his eyes, or the gruelling day on the road - the ache in his legs, the growth of stubble he doesn't want - but suddenly he's standing. He's never thought of himself as particularly tall before, but he seems rather high above Fergus, and the oldest Cousland child is looking at him with surprise in his eyes and maybe something else, too - maybe fear. "Don't you dare. Maker help me, that woman was my world, and if you think I'd  _manipulate_  her after I promised..."  
  
Curiosity crosses Fergus's face, and something else: realization. "Promised?"  
  
Oh, Alistair realizes as he comes down from his temporary high, he shouldn't have said that. He  _really_  shouldn't have said that. "I mean - We weren't - " Tiredness, anger at the intrusion and the sheer loneliness of being the only one to know combine, and when he intends to tell the lie, what actually comes out is, “We were together.” He crumples to sit back on the ground, his arms coming up to loop round his knees.

He chokes on the next words; he struggles with them and picks them carefully before he manages, “We were friends. Later, we were... more than that.” He glances for a fleeting second at Fergus, looking for comprehension – he finds it, and yes, surprise as well; the man doesn’t quite manage to hide it, the flash of shock in his eyes – and then back to his shield. “Yes, I know.” He laughs, and it’s small and twisted. “The beautiful noble and the nobody. Believe me, I could never figure it out either.   
  
"But it was... good. Something good, in all that death and darkness, and... I loved her. She said she loved me.” He’s still, the fidgeting the Revered Mother always used to berate him for gone, sitting there and spilling his heart out. “I don’t expect that,” he says hastily, finally looking at Fergus. “That’s... that’s all in the past. It isn’t why I’m here. But seeing her like this – with her family, happy? I can’t help wanting to... to stay. We were friends. I... I’d like that again, if possible.”  
  
The words leave an echoing emptiness in their wake. The silence stretches, thick and awkward, before Fergus says, “I’m sorry.”  
  
Alistair shrugs. “Yes, well. Improbable Blight-reversals happen.”  
  
“You still love her.”  
  
“Stupidly, yes.”  
  
“Does she know about all this? The... the relationship?”  
  
“No, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her. She’s got enough to worry about as it is without...” He waves a despairing hand. “... that.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter. We’re stopping the Blight, and if she’s happy, I’m happy.”  
  
Fergus looks at him incredulously. “You say that like it’s simple. How can you carry that around with you and say it doesn’t matter?”  
  
His frustration gets the better of him. “What else am I supposed to do?" Silence. "No, please, tell me, because I have no idea..."  
  
"I..." Fergus tries, before admitting, "I don't know."  
  
"I thought so."  
  
"And forgive me for suggesting... I shouldn't have."  
  
Alistair sighs. "Don't worry. I'm sure everyone else was thinking it."  
  
Fergus shakes his head. "They weren't, actually. I'm her brother - it's my  _job_ , and my Maker-given right, to worry."  
  
"She'd kill you for saying that."  
  
Fergus laughs a little. "I know."   
  
"I'm her... I'm her friend. And I'll try not to be so... She doesn't need that. She has a Blight on her plate, never mind me." He offers Fergus something approximating a smile, tentative and unsure.  
  
Fergus returns it, then his expression is once again in its former serious state. It's more than a little foreboding. "Were you good to her?" he asks simply.  
  
 _Well, I died for her. Does that count? I hope that counts._  
  
"Good enough, I hope," Alistair replies, the best he can do - and then adds, "Good enough  _for_  her? No. Not by a long shot."  
  
Fergus looks terribly sad for a moment; Alistair has to wonder what's going on in his head, and then decides he probably doesn't want to know. "Thank you, Alistair," Fergus says, and his smile this time is reassuringly genuine. He stands and begins to walk away.  
  
Alistair stares after him. What in the Maker's name was  _that_? And what has he just done?

* * *

Fergus' quill scratches on the parchment - his strokes are too heavy, he's crushing the nib. He sighs. He's already dismissed three men, done his best to see to their business, but now that he finally has time to write, he can't think of what to put down. Oriana - it already feels like days since he's seen her, and he doubts that a letter will be nearly enough. Perhaps it's Alistair and Patience, their situation - he feels strangely  _lucky._  His wife is safe, and she at least knows who he is...   
  
Patience has to realize sooner or later; the young Warden's feelings are in his eyes, written across his face, and it seems as if he'll never learn to hide them.  
  
And as for Fergus himself, the Cousland brother? He's still fighting his shock. A Warden, of all people? After all the arrangements Mother and Father made to set her up with nobles? He supposes he shouldn't be surprised - she always  _has_  been stubborn. There are worse men - though also less self-absorbed ones. He was already struggling to comprehend the thought of her being a Warden (and one of the last; one of the two that ended the Blight), but  _with_  one, as well? With  _anyone?_  She has lost more than she will ever realize.  
  
Unless... Fergus frowns, his quill stilling. She was interested in the Warden before, and they are both the same people - perhaps...  
  
"Ser?"  
  
Fergus looks up, into the dark eyes of the Warden-Commander. "Fergus is fine."  
  
"Forgive me," the older man says. "I was looking for Alistair. Have you seen him at all?"  
  
"He's set up camp on the outskirts. He's probably with my sister." He finds himself muttering before he can stop it, "As usual." The Warden gives him a look that makes him feel uncomfortably like he's being dissected. "Commander," he adds quickly. He feels the need to, before he's skewered by that steady gaze.  
  
Duncan seems to be thinking over his words. After a moment the man shakes himself out of it and nods. "Thank you."  
  
Fergus acknowledges the man's thanks with a nod of his own, returning to his parchment. When he glances up, Duncan's gone.

* * *

 _Snikt. Snikt. Snikt._  
  
The sound is an odd counterpoint to the comforting murmur of the river. Patience sits sharpening one of her daggers, the movement of the whetstone something she barely notices in her distraction. Smith is beside her, lying on his stomach - his head is resting on his paws as he watches the flow of the water, seemingly transfixed.  
  
She's been further downriver, trying to catch fish, for the last half an hour, with little success - emphasis on the trying. Only Smith has had any luck so far. The things wriggled feebly in his jaws, flapping and silver, and Patience had to look away. She tried three times to bring herself to kill them, and couldn't bring herself to.  
  
It's odd, that - having killed a man in cold blood, she couldn't even end a fish. She shakes her head at her own foolishness; however will she be able to kill darkspawn? She frowns at the water, her hand stilling in its sharpening, and then stands. There are some chains of thought it's rather unhealthy to dwell on. "Come on, Smith."  
  
He whines, obviously resenting the order, but stands and complies - he ducks to pick up the fish as he does so, and she looks away; the reminder of her cowardice is unpleasant.

When they reach camp, she looks around but sees neither Fergus nor Alistair - it takes several minutes before she finds her brother: he's sitting on a tree stump, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment that he's somehow managed to balance on a chest. She frowns down at him. "Is that your clothes chest?"  
  
He jumps, nearly ruining the quill. "Patience," he says, trying his best to smile. "There you are."  
  
"I was fishing," she tells him, gesturing to Smith - he gives Fergus a doggy grin through a mouthful of half-skinned fish.  
  
Fergus grimaces, but it relaxes into a laugh. "Is this fishing or 'fishing'?" She glares at him, but it doesn't seem to deter him. "I assume you sat and watched Smith do all the work?"  
  
"I attempted - " she begins to protest.  
  
"Ah." He raises a finger. "Attempted." Her glare grows, if anything, even more venomous, but he's unperturbed: he simply looks back at her, if slightly smugly.   
  
When he manages to keep a straight face for a full minute without looking away, she gives up. "Have you seen Alistair?"  
  
"Why?" he counters too quickly, something guarded behind his eyes. She doesn't like it. It makes her afraid, that look from her normally laughing brother. It's a far more real terror than distant darkspawn and the effects of the Joining.  
  
"I," she begins, then makes a different choice. "Warden matters." She wonders why she is lying, and indeed, why she's instinctually seeking the man out. She has no particular reason to.  
  
Fergus raises a disbelieving brow. "I'd give him some space, Patience. He seems rather..." A pause as he searches for the right word. "...homesick," he finishes, eventually.  
  
She considers, for a moment, doing just that - she's reluctant to impose her company upon him - but she wonders if she can cheer him up. Sometimes it works. "I'll at least attempt to speak to him."  
  
Fergus still looks doubtful, and begins to open his mouth. She shakes her head and starts the walk across camp. "Wrong way," Fergus calls after her. She turns around and keeps walking.  
  
She pauses when she sees the Warden Commander sitting next to Alistair a few feet away. His hands are clasped as if in prayer, his expression one of intense concentration. Meanwhile, in utter contrast, Alistair is fidgeting, looking somewhere past his superior officer. The typicality of it makes her smile, half-exasperated and half fond. This feeling she should know, her instincts tell her - this companionship, this instant familiarity. He seems to know everything about her, but she's still learning.  
  
She should turn, head back to Fergus, but she finds herself slipping into the trees instead. (It's a security risk, camping this close to the woods. Gives the enemy an element of surprise if they use the foliage. She should remind Alistair of that.) Guilt stirs in her, but curiosity overpowers it. Every time she's done this, it's been useful, and truthfully, she’s sick of having secrets kept from her. She moves towards them, her footsteps so quiet as to be almost inaudible, and hears Duncan say, "We should have spoken of this sooner."

Alistair sighs. "No, we... It wasn't important, I guess. You knew about Loghain and Cai - the king, and that seemed like it was enough."  
  
"And me."  
  
“And – You know, I really don’t want to talk about this.”  
  
“Who led you?”  
  
“Well, there was Patience. I mean, we muddled along, I suppose, but it wasn’t the same. It... really wasn’t.” There s a long, unhappy silence in which Patience can hear him being unable to look Duncan in the eye. “Maybe if you’d been there things would have worked out better, I don’t know...”  
  
“Alistair, you killed the Archdemon. The war was won.”  
  
"The king died.  _You_  died."  
  
The hesitation this time is Duncan's and that surprises Patience - the man's always seemed so sure of himself. "And would you like to talk about that?"  
  
"I just... You're here now, you're leading us, and that's what matters. Right?"  
  
"Hm." Duncan's voice is sceptical. "I have things to attend to. Unless you have anything else to say..." The scrapes of armour plates moving as he stands up, and she hears him say something more, so quietly she doesn't make out the words. His footsteps fade, and this corner of the camp is quiet.  
  
"Patience," Alistair says. It's mostly a sigh.  
  
She jumps. She winds her way out of the trees, and finds him still sitting, watching her with an expression that's a mix of resignation and dry amusement. He greets her with, "Hello again."  
  
She finds her words, though it takes her a moment. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."  
  
He gives her a rueful smile. "Nope. But it's not like this is the first time."  
  
"No, I really am sorry. I thought it would be Warden issues, more secrets that would come and bite me later. I didn't realize it was personal, and I had no right." Her guilt has truly caught up with her, and she feels awful.  
  
He shrugs. "Could be worse. How come you're here, anyway?"  
  
Her excuse is easier to find this time, as it's mostly true. "Fergus said you seemed rather upset. I came to see if I could help."  
  
He shakes his head, but his smile doesn't fade. "It's fine. It really is fine." She wonders whether to poke him, try and get more nformation, but he seems reluctant to divulge his problems, and she doesn't want to anger him further.  
  
"That and I..." She was thinking this while heading across camp and surreptitiously checking out spots; it made perfect sense at the time, but now she worries that it'll sound odd or unwelcome if she says it. "There aren't many spaces around camp. Even Fergus is camped near sweaty soldiers, and I thought that perhaps I could... camp here. More privacy from the main camp."  
  
He seems surprised but not opposed to the idea. "Oh, right. Well, if you can put up with me..."  
  
She sighs. "It's not a matter of 'putting up' with you. I enjoy your company, you fool."  
  
He gives her a true, unreserved smile, her misdemeanour apparently forgotten; it astonishes her that he can forgive her so easily. "Need any help with the tent?"  
  
"How did you know I was there?" she asks suddenly.  
  
"I didn't. But Duncan's one of the sneakiest people in this camp."  
  
She flushes.  
  
They spend the next hour wrestling with canvas and tent pegs. She's surprised at how little cursing goes on in the process.

* * *

She is being kissed impossibly slowly, blankets warm beneath her. A hand trails across her cheek, down to her shoulder. He leans in, all warmth and controlled strength, to say in her ear, "By Andraste, you're beautiful like this." She doesn't have to open her eyes to know that he's smiling - she can feel it against her cheekbone, along with the roughness that says he needs a shave.

She grins, lazy and contented. "Should I be offended that you're thinking of another woman in our bed?"  
  
"Never. It's only you." He pauses. "Well, most of the time it's you." And now he's teasing her, the bastard. "Sometimes. Occasionally..."  
  
 _"Alistair,"_  she grumbles, silencing him with another kiss, and she can feel him laughing into her mouth. She manages once she has her breath back, "So are you, by the way."  
  
They're close enough that she can tell when he pauses, evidently surprised by what she's said. Now she does open her eyes, to see him frowning at her, genuinely taken aback. "I'm...?"  
  
"And when you laugh. Yes."  
  
"Oh. Well... um, thank you?"  
  
"Mm. Now, if you don't mind..."  
  
And he brings his mouth to hers, preparing to continue where they left off. He pauses. "Patience..."

* * *

"Patience!"  
  
She wakes reluctantly and groggily, caught between confusion, inexplicable anger at whoever's awoken her and... something else. She raises a hand to her cheek; her face is hot, her breathing too fast, and there's a fading tingle on her lips. Well, that's... new. It doesn't seem to have been a nightmare, at least. She struggles to make out details, to remember what's left her like this, and if she could only  _think -  
  
"Patience!"_  
  
The dream is gone, along with the last remnants of sleep. "Yes, I'm up!" she snaps. It's so odd not to have a servant waking her up - a small thing, but one that reminds her once again that she's no longer at home, not here to be pampered. She's going to be a Grey Warden. The thought is still strange in her mind. "Sorry," she adds. "That was unnecessary."  
  
"Hm." Alistair seems to consider it. "Maybe a little."  
  
Speaking of Wardens: Alistair is still somewhere outside her tent. For some reason, that makes her blush anew. The thought of him seeing her like this... She has already confided too much in him. "Wait," she calls. "I'm not entirely decent."  
  
He coughs, hesitates, and she thinks for one strange moment that she can hear his embarrassment. "Ah. Right. I'll be... over here."  
  
She runs a hand down her face, exhaling, and shakes off the odd thoughts. She still can't remember the dream, and it won't do any good to distract herself with worrying about it. She struggles into a pair of breeches, elbowing the tent several times and praying she doesn't knock it over.  
  
She squirms out of her tent, wincing at the sunlight. Alistair just smiles at her. "Slept well?"  
  
Yes. No. Perhaps. If only she could remember... No; that's a terrible idea. She needs to focus. "I think so. How can you be so annoyingly cheery at this hour?"  
  
"I've been up for two hours, Patience."   
  
She stares at him. "Two...?"  
  
"Yup." His tone is bright. "We should be going. Fergus is rallying the troops. Duncan's with him." He squints at her, cocks his head. "Are you all right? You look a bit flushed."  
  
She coughs, inwardly cursing. "The... the heat," she says, ducking her head so she won't have to look him in the eye. "It's rather warm today."  
  
He nods understandingly. "That it is." He passes her a piece of bread, and she wonders through the haze of exhaustion and distraction how long he's had it without her noticing.  
  
Focus, Patience. Focus.  
  
"Best get yourself cleaned up," he tells her. "We've got quite a day ahead."  
  
She frowns. "Two hours?" she repeats. She performs the calculations in the moment that follows, realizing what time he must have risen. "I'm sure that can't be natural."  
  
He laughs. "That's what you said last time." At her glare, he asks, "You're going to kill me if I keep saying that, aren't you?" She nods, and he explains, "Chantry habits, I suppose. They drill it into you so you'll be in time for morning prayers."  
  
And now she remembers... White flashes behind her eyelids, memories and pain hitting her simultaneously; she has to close her eyes, but it does little against the onslaught: she is waking up and crawling out of her tent day after day, and he is putting up with her bleariness, proffering food and smiling like he's glad to see her, even when he's hardly in a better state himself...

Hands on her shoulders, steady and grounding; she opens her eyes and Alistair is there - he's waiting calmly, seeming more curious than perturbed. "Anything interesting?" he asks, when she's regained her breath.  
  
She frowns, shakes her head. "This is getting ridiculous. It was breakfast. That was all."  
  
He looks at her in surprise. "That was what triggered it?"  
  
"Apparently. And it was one of the worst yet."  
  
"Worst - ?"  
  
"I had a splitting headache. It was all too bright. Sometimes it's... I simply know."  
  
There is a moment of silence as she recovers; his hands are still on her shoulders, his face close to hers, and they both seem to comprehend that at the same time. "Sorry," he says, hastily removing them and stepping back.  
  
"Where's Smith?" she asks. He fell asleep outside her tent last night, and there's no sign of him.  
  
"With Fergus." Alistair looks to the horizon. "Go on. Get ready; I doubt they'll wait for us."  
  
"Right." She looks down, discovering with some disappointment that she's dropped the bread. "Damn. Is it always going to be like this?" She gives him a dark look. "You get to see the future _and_  have breakfast. What have you done that I haven't?"  
  
He shrugs and laughs, but something stirs behind his eyes that is anything but happy. She wonders what he's thinking of. (He's interesting, she allows herself to admit, the odd young Warden with the pithy wit and the gentle touch; that last thought makes her look away from him - she searches for something that won't incriminate her, some innocent rock or the remains of the fire.) "Impressed someone in the Fade?" he suggests.  
  
"Maybe." She should go; the troops will be lining up soon, they can't be late... "Oh no. Give me five minutes." She wriggles back into her tent, fetching clothes and her leathers, then runs in the direction of the river. She glances over her shoulder to see him watching her, amused rather than irritated. The back of her neck burns as she runs; she can feel his eyes on her. Strangely, in that moment it's not the feelings from the dream that sneak into her mind. Once again, she remembers the training yard and her fingers on his skin; the two of them standing outside her room, and the gentle way he touched her face when he seemed to forget his worries; his hands, firm on her shoulders; his comfort with her.  
  
Once again, she shakes her head - none of it means anything. She doesn't know why she keeps lingering upon the memories... or, in fact, upon thoughts of Alistair generally.

* * *

"I think I preferred the nightmares," Alistair mutters.  
  
Urthemiel is sitting on a bench outside what appears to be the Denerim Chantry. It's a sunny day, but - unsurprisingly - there's no sky. One long leg is crossed over another, the... man... god... graceful as ever. This irritates Alistair more than he feels it really should.  _"You were not the only one trapped in them,"_  Urthemiel says.  
  
"Yes, I know." He sighs. "Still, at least I knew what was going on - "  
  
 _"Warden,"_  Urthemiel interrupts, seeming unusually perturbed.  _"The brother knows."_  
  
Alistair - for once in his life - thinks before he speaks; Urthemiel does not look pleased, and he needs to play this one carefully. "Yes," he says heavily. "He knows. He guessed something was up, at least."  
  
Urthemiel watches him; what Alistair thought was anger fades into something more thoughtful.  _"This could be a very dangerous course of action. Then again, things may be achieved faster if she discovers - "_  
  
"No!" Alistair cuts him off, surprised by his own vehemence. "She can't - " Damn. He tries again. "She doesn't even know me. She's already afraid enough. If she thinks that I expect..."  
  
 _"So you will continue to run in useless circles, simply to ensure her piece of mind?"_  
  
"If I have to." He sighs. "You haven't even let me die properly. Can I just... can't I just have this?"

 _"For the recipient of a gift, you're hardly grateful,"_  Urthemiel says disapprovingly. _"I have given you another chance, and I am growing tired of your protests, Warden, your complaints. I have given you your life, and you scorn it. The things you can change, the pain you could save yourself - and yet you focus on what you can't have. You are a petulant child playing at knighthood."_ Urthemiel sighs, stands.  
  
It is quite something, to have a second chance so few receive, and he feels like a brat. "Urthemiel - I didn't mean - "  
  
 _"Humans,"_  Urthemiel mutters, and then, without preamble, walks away, disappearing completely after he's taken a couple of steps.  
  
"Urthemiel?" he calls, expecting to wake up, but the dream doesn't fade (and he's sure there's a good pun in there, but he can't be bothered to pursue it). "Urthemiel?"  
  
He blinks, and suddenly he's standing in a darkened room; there's a little light coming through a small window, just enough to see by. There's a dressing table in a corner. (Hairpins. Hairpins are on it. This is Patience's room.) There's a shape curled up in her bed, underneath the covers, and it's... shaking, little sobs emanating from it now and again. With a sinking feeling, he thinks he recognizes them.  
  
She's facing away from him, not looking up as he approaches - she doesn't even seem to notice him. He edges round the bed, waiting for a reaction. Her eyes are tightly shut, her face tear-stained; she's biting her knuckles, trying to muffle her sobs. He reaches for her, at least trying to take her hand away, but she doesn't even seem to notice him.  
  
"Patience," he says softly. No acknowledgement. Does she even know he's here? "Patience?" he tries again, at least trying to wipe a few tears away, but she doesn't stir. "Patience, please, at least talk to me - "   
  
What could have got her in this kind of state? She's always been strong, Patience, always snapped out of it when there were people that needed her. She's pale, bags under her eyes that tell him she hasn't slept for a while - for too long, he thinks grimly.  
  
(He remembers the weirdest thing. Standing outside her door; her eyes brimming with tears that were ready to fall; watching her curl in on herself and struggle not to crumble, half-asleep and suddenly seeming awfully fragile. "Do you ever get a feeling, like... something's missing?")  
  
She opens her eyes; his heart skips a beat, but she's looking through him, unseeing, her eyes focused on the wall. She's still shaking, still sobbing, and he has to do  _something_... He tries to take her arm, but nothing changes; it makes no difference. He looks up. "I'm not really here, am I?" he asks.  
  
 _Of course not,_  Urthemiel replies smoothly, from nowhere and everywhere.  _You're dead._  
  
And then the light in the room becomes blinding; he's on the roof again, with the endless light, and the  _wrench_  of dying -

* * *

Patience, still sorting through her supplies, hears what sounds like a bitten-off scream. Ah. So that's why he chose to sleep on the outskirts. She's surprised by the way the sound cuts through her. Nothing he's mentioned about Warden nightmares has prepared her for this. She's ducking out of her tent and running to his before she can contemplate her actions much further. She briefly hesitates, but what sounds awfully like a whimper - a strange sound from such a normally steadfast man - compels her to move.   
  
She kneels at the mouth of the tent, hesitant to quest further. "Alistair?" No response; he's still thrashing around, the dying fire giving her enough light to see that his fists are clenched, his teeth gritted. Whatever he's seeing, it can't be pleasant. She sighs, unsure how to approach this, before shuffling a little closer and reaching for him. This feels too personal, too private. He's a man she only met days ago. And yet whatever this is seems like some horrible pain, and he trusts her... She takes his wrist, maintaining a tight grip. "Alistair! It's me, you're not - you're not there, wherever you are..."  
  
The words appear to rouse him. He mumbles something and struggles to sit up, only half-awake - his eyes are unfocused, barely open - and gasps, "Patience?"  
  
"It's me," she tells him, raising a hand to his shoulder to calm him.   
  
She's suddenly, unexpectedly pulled into a hug. Despite her surprise, her first thought is of how warm he is. She considers breaking the embrace, but his breathing is still uneven, and he's shaking - she can feel it, and it worries her. Unsure what to do, she tries, "It's all right. You're safe." It dawns on her that it feels... familiar, being here. Comfortable. She finds herself laying her head on his shoulder, moving her hand to his shoulder blade; the motions are old ones, simple as breathing. She's done this before. He's solid, reassuringly so; it's almost... pleasant, and that thought feels strangely inappropriate. She hears him calming, becoming aware of his situation, and she feels it when he abruptly freezes.  
  
He lets go of her quickly, shuffling backwards and showing her his palms. "I'm sorry, I... I wasn't thinking - "  
  
"Alistair," she begins, wondering why she's taking his hand (and thinking of all the times he's done the same for her; of his soft words and reassurances), "I was simply returning the favour."  
  
"I - " He still looks panicked, but it's beginning to leave him. He looks down at her hand on top of his like it might bite him, and she hears him swallow. "Thank you. You..." He runs a shaking hand through his hair. "You shouldn't have had to see that."  
  
"From what you said, I did before - there's little difference. And besides" - honesty feels rough on her tongue - "I couldn't just leave you to..." She trails off. "Well."  
  
He's still watching her; the wild-eyed surprise of before is gone, but there's a crease between his brows. It seems he still can't work out why she'd do such a thing. "Well... thank you. And again, I'm sorry."   
  
She shakes her head. "There's no need to apologize. Just... are you all right?" That is the important thing; he's clearly shaken.

He nods, giving her a weak smile. Running an absentminded hand over his mouth, he replies, "I think so." He still seems distant, like he's seeing something far away and from another time. This isn't like the traces of melancholy she's seen before, the fleeting clouds that pass quickly enough: this is deeper, bad enough to have him sweating and trembling.  
  
"So..." She fishes for something to say. "Bad dreams?" She wonders why that drags a laugh, barely-there and a little bitter, from him, but he makes no move to say anything more. She finds herself unable to resist the urge; she has to ask. "What did you see?" She knows the moment the question is out of her mouth that it's far too personal. She wants to take it back, but can't bring herself to.

"I saw..." His hands on his knees, he frowns down at his palms almost disbelievingly. "I  _died."_ The look of anguish on his face is a physical tug, pulling her towards him to do something. It makes her wonder what he saw, the night he talked her down from the nightmare. If it was anything like this, he dealt with it far better than she's doing now.

Once again on impulse, she lays her thumb on his wrist, as if to check his pulse, and leans in a little. "Well, you're breathing, as far as I can tell." She grimaces for effect. "And I think you've had garlic recently."

A laugh, but this one is lighter, better. "I wish you knew..." He seems to lose his words, but, determined to live up to her name, she waits for him. "I wish you could know how you helped me."

"I'm trying," she offers.

"I know." He meets her eye. "And believe me, I appreciate it." His mouth twitches. "Well, this is cheery, isn't it? Had any more nightmares yourself? Maybe we can swap stories."

"I..." She prays she isn't reddening, because it feels as though her face is on fire. "No. Not exactly." Her hand is still on his wrist, she registers belatedly. She removes it, but pauses, because suddenly...

"I remember," she says, and he tenses, watching her. "You helped me. The first... the first nightmare. You helped me, and I - the Archdemon..." Her eyes shut tightly. "The dragon. The Archdemon's the dragon, isn't it?"

He still isn't saying anything; he swallows, shoulders tense as if he's anticipating a blow, but when she doesn't say anything more, he sighs, "Yes." He seems to find himself, and grins at her. "Ugly, isn't he?"

 _He?_  she has time to think, but her curiosity at that is surpassed by something else. "You killed that?"

He shakes his head with a slightly nervous laugh. "You say that like it was just me. I had help."

She thinks of the allies he's mentioned in passing, the beer-breathed dwarf... "The people you mentioned? The non-Wardens?"  
  
"Well, I more meant you." He looks at her pointedly, and she remembers the conversation she wasn't meant to overhear.  
  
 _Who led you?  
  
Well, there was Patience._  
  
The thought is far too daunting for her to devote any time to it. Her, a leader of Wardens? "Not that that's terrifying at  _all..._ " she mutters, looking at the ground.  
  
His laugh returns her eyes to him. "Oh, it wasn't so bad," he tells her. "Once we got past the whole abject terror thing." He sighs. "I keep thinking - we used to do this a lot. It's frustrating, sometimes, how it feels familiar, but it's never quite the same."  
  
The silence between them isn't exactly a happy one, and the burgeoning question in her mind finally finds its way out of her mouth.  
  
"Do you miss her?" When he obviously doesn't understand the question, she tries, "The other... Not me. The other Patience?"  
  
He's still looking at her as if he can't fathom what would make her ask. This time, however, it's different. "Why would I? Patience, I see her every day." He smiles in bemusement and more than a little sadness. "Frankly, I think you'd be terrified how little you changed during the Blight. I look at you and I see the woman I - I trusted with my life. My best friend. The only one of us who cooked worse than I did."  
  
"Someone I'll never be. Well," she says bitterly, looking at her lap, "that's so much better - you sitting there, just waiting for me to be satisfactory." She hears him pause, and wonders if that's hit home. Then she feels his hand settle on her arm.  
  
"I like you now too. You're so much happier than you were when we first met, and you are all the things now you were then. The same person. The same smile. The same prickliness. You misinterpret everything I say if you're in a mood. Andraste's  _arse_ , Patience, why do you think I'm still here? Why do you think I'm making myself look like a fool? Why do you think I'm not avoiding you and, well,  _waiting?_ "  
  
"Oh," she manages, after far too many moments pass. "Well. I suppose you have a point." She stares at him. What is he seeing that she isn't?  
  
He grimaces. "I went off on one a bit there. That wasn't fair of me."  
  
She shakes her head. "No, it was fair. I'm not entirely sure what I said was, but maybe we should leave it at that."  
  
He looks up as if he expects to see the sky, but is met only with canvas. "What time is it?"  
  
She shrugs. "Dawn is a way off. You should try and get some sleep; it looks like the last leg of this will be the longest."  
  
His eyes were sharp. He said nothing, and she realized she was being judged. "Have you slept? I didn't wake you up, did I?"  
  
"No. I was arranging my things. And personally, I think we really need to go to bed."  
  
He raises an eyebrow.  
  
She refuses to look away and keeps her head high, even as the blush in her cheeks - once again; she really needs to get things under control - betrays her. "Separately, of course. I have no idea what  _you_  were thinking."

He smirks. "I know. And I think you're right - your mouth always tends to run away from you when you're sleep-deprived."  
  
"Are you sure you're all right?"  
  
"I'll be fine. Get some sleep. Believe me, you'll be thankful for it in the morning." He gives her a tired smile.  
  
She's about to leave when she becomes aware that she's rather tempted to stay. He's good company, and part of her doubts that she'll find any sleep tonight - she'll be too busy dwelling on the future ahead of her, and what could give a man such nightmares. "Call for me if you feel the need to," she tells him, and ducks out of his tent.  
  
Once she's returned to her own, she's surprised at what actually haunts her. She finds herself stretched out on her bedroll, trying not to cringe.  _I think we need to go to bed?_  Maker's  _breath_ , who thought it was a good idea to let her out of Castle Cousland?

* * *

She was right. This is by far the longest walk she's had to endure. Fergus and Alistair are beside her; they've said little to each other - it's been like this for the last couple of days, and she wonders whether they've had an argument. That said, Alistair has been surprisingly taciturn with everyone. She wonders if he's still thinking on the events of last night.  
  
That suspicion is only confirmed when he says quietly, "Thank you for the help last night. I hope I didn't disturb you."  
  
She shrugs. "Not much. Though if that's what I have to look forward to when I become a Warden..." She remembers her own nightmares and finishes, "... there probably won't be much difference, actually."  
  
"Less soul-crushing terror, hopefully." He tries for a smile, but distracted, mutters something that sounds very much like, "If I still have one, that is."  
  
Hours pass. They walk on without speaking; she's thoughtful, but as they carry on, she sneaks glances at him. He's radiating tension and discomfort, walking like it's a chore. It's a far cry from what she's seen over the past few days. When the towers of the fortress become visible, she can see that he's actually gritting his teeth. "You look like you're heading to the gallows," she tells him. "What's wrong?" She remembers him talking about the memories that are waiting there, and wonders if those are the reason for this.  
  
His step falters a little - but only a little - and he starts, "I..." A frustrated exhale. "Truthfully? I'd rather pull my teeth out than go there again. I know I have to, but... well. If you like death, destruction and politics, it's the perfect destination." The false cheeriness he adds to the last sentence is even worse than his apparent misery. "Sorry. I guess the memories from that place aren't the best." He swallows. "There's also the fact that when I get there, I need to request an audience with the king."  
  
Ostagar looms ahead of them, becoming larger with every step.


	12. Fraternity

_So it's now, is it? I guess there isn't a perfect time, or a perfect place. We might die, or I might be crowned, or..._  
  
_She's so beautiful. I forget, sometimes, then I look at her and it's like someone's punched me in the chest. I can't_ breathe _right. It's not like she'll want this - the clumsiness, and the scars, and the virginity, and the bloody_ rambling _\- but I have to_  ask.  
  
_I can't... I want..._  
  
_I have to at least_ ask.

* * *

Ostagar. Maybe it's something in the air, or maybe it's all in his head, but he can taste blood. The place - even in clear daylight, not the night it fell - looks more imposing than ever, towers reaching to the sky and throwing them all into shadow. Duncan leads them in, as he did the very first time - before the massacre; before Patience, though that seems such a long time ago now. He remembers coming here when he was still a novice, straight out of the Chantry - and so very glad to be  _out_  of it. That had been far too narrow a thing.

They've separated from Fergus and the Cousland troops so that they can head into the Grey Warden camp, and Alistair, under all the misery, is strangely hopeful. He's missed them all. He's missed the stink of armour polish, and the ridiculous drinking songs, and the stories...   
  
He's just beginning to feel that all might not be lost when he sees Cailan, his heart sinking into his boots.  
  
It happens far sooner than he anticipated: rather than them running into the king, His Majesty comes straight to them.  _Great._  Well, there goes his hope of holding this off for just a little longer. The king's armour is so blindingly golden that Alistair is tempted to shield his eyes. Subtle. That monstrosity makes the Knight Commander's plate look positively austere; it probably cost more than all of Alistair's possessions put together.   
  
The king is greeting Duncan, and how can a man be so bloody  _cheerful_  in the midst of a Blight? Oh, right. They didn't think it was one back then. (Who were they kidding? There was a blighted  _Archdemon_  at the front of the horde. What did they think, that an Old God had come up from underground to take a holiday?) Alistair reins the instinct in - one nearly as old as he is; he remembers doing it in the Chantry days with old coins from the tithe cup - to stare, to analyse and look for the resemblance he's heard so much about. He's never quite managed to see it; it's probably there if you're looking for it, sure, but he thinks it says something that he's managed to hide his unwanted heritage for so long and from so many. It's the first time he's seen the king properly, this close to, since they were both children.   
  
The king's gaze turns to Patience, and Alistair remembers her telling him about this. She'd said it so simply, like it was no big deal, in the curt way she talked about things that hurt her before they really knew each other. The king had asked her...  
  
"Patience. I didn't expect to see you so soon. How are your family?"  
  
"They're well, Your Majesty, thank you. Fergus is with the troops, in fact." The three of them - Patience, Duncan and himself - fell to the back of the line in order not to delay the army marching through. That thought's swiftly overtaken by the bone-breaking, winded  _relief_  he feels. This time she won't have to tell that particular story with a shaking voice and white knuckles.  
  
One tragedy down. Maker knows how many to go.  
  
"Alistair," the king says, and he realizes too late that he's been lost in his own head, missed half the conversation. Smooth.  
  
He bows, as he knows he should do to royalty. Maybe he should be surprised that Cailan knows his name. Then again, maybe not - there are only so many Wardens in camp, and perhaps... That thought is too terrifying to even consider; that said, Alistair has been doing nothing  _but_  considering it since the start of the Blight. Maybe Cailan knows what they have in common.  
  
"Your Majesty," he replies. There, that wasn't so bad.  
  
"I hear you were recruited from the Chantry."  
  
"Ah..."  _Talk_ , damn you. "Yes. I was conscripted before I took my final vows."  
  
"How are you settling in?"

"Very well, Your Majesty." He wonders who the overly formal puppet speaking is; it certainly isn't him. He's never been made for politics.  
  
The king regards him with something close to approval, then it's gone; Cailan's turning to Duncan, sighing about talking strategy with Loghain, and Alistair knows that this will probably be the last chance he has to truly speak to the man before...  
  
Before Ostagar. With a sinking feeling, he wonders when it became an event and a scar rather than just a place.  
  
"Your Majesty," he finds himself saying, as the king makes to leave.  
  
Cailan turns. Surprise breaks through his smiling, confident demeanour for a moment; that moment is brief, passing so swiftly it's almost unnoticeable. "Warden?"  
  
This is high on Alistair's list of things he never, ever wants to do - including fighting the Archdemon naked and bathing anywhere near Zevran - but he still says, "I... request an audience."  
  
He hears Duncan ask him, "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Incrementally, he nods; it's not like there's an alternative - in a moment, Cailan will go and Loghain will feed everyone lies, and then everything goes to the Void. He feels someone touch his hand; not quite holding it, their fingers brushing his. It's a reassurance rather than an accident. He doesn't look to see who it is, not yet - if he does, he'll lose his nerve.  
  
Cailan's pause - the fact that he stops, considers and looks into the eyes of a lowly, scruffy Warden - dispels any lingering hope that the king is unaware of the whole "Maric's bastard" situation. Alistair feels ill, suddenly - the man standing before him is everything he isn't, everything he's ever wanted to pretend doesn't exist. He has a sudden horrified flash of memory.  _I saw you dead and used as a darkspawn trophy. They offered me your_ throne. He blinks twice, frantically trying to wipe away the images in his head.  
  
"Certainly," Cailan says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. "Walk with me."  
  
Alistair looks around him - Duncan's face is saying this is a mistake. Patience is watching him with concerned eyes, but they're encouraging, too. He takes note of where she's standing, and realizes that the hand he felt brush his belonged to Patience. It’s strangely intimate, that simple touch. After last night he already feels like he’s given too much away, like she’s stolen his secret. He turns his head so he won’t have to meet her gaze, feeling hopelessly awkward. “Yes,” he says, “right.”  
  
And then he’s walking away from Patience and Duncan at Cailan’s side. He has to slow his steps a little to keep pace; he’s less weighed down by armour, and the king has a slow, leisurely walk, like he wants to take everything in – like he wants to survey his kingdom. The thought has Alistair fighting a smirk.  
  
“So,” the king says, “is something troubling you?”  
  
"It's... a private matter," Alistair says, after a moment of thought. No, it's probably not entirely wise to discuss the succession and preventing civil war in a crowded camp.  
  
Cailan nods. "We can go to my tent, then."   
  
Alistair mutely follows him, wondering for the nth time what he's done to Urthemiel to deserve this.  
  
They duck into the tent. It's large; large enough to contain a desk and maps, even without the king's sleeping arrangements. It all looks like some great game board - as though Cailan and Loghain are gods, playing chess with lives and lands. Which, really, they are.  
  
"So," Alistair says, once they're inside and alone. "You're going to ask me to light the beacon along with Patience." Once again, he's watching himself speak, amazed and a little horrified he'd dare to talk to his king like this.

Cailan's eyes widen briefly, but he recovers fast. Anyone who wasn't watching the man like their life depended on it - as Alistair is - would miss it. "Yes, I was."  
  
"Why?" The question's far too curt. This is the answer Alistair has wanted and dreaded in equal measure since Ostagar. He can feel how tense he is, every muscle coiled and his teeth all but gritted. He's certain Cailan has noticed too.  
  
"I thought you were the best for the job."  
  
"Really?" His voice is something he doesn't recognize; it's cold, falsely casual and quietly dangerous. He crosses his arms, his cynicism readily apparent - it's a wonder he hasn't been dragged off by the guards or arrested for contempt of the Crown. "Two inept junior Wardens were the best for a job that would dictate the way the  _entire_  battle turned?"  
  
  
"Alistair..."  
  
"A job that ever-so-conveniently kept us both away from the front lines, one of the last Cousland heirs and - and..." His voice fails him. He can't say it; even after all this time, he still can't say it. Maybe in front of Patience, but this man? Maric's  _son,_  Maric's real son?  
  
It's not, eventually, Cailan's anger - there doesn't appear to be any - that stops Alistair from restarting his tirade; it's the look of utter fatigue on the man's face, and the way the king slumps ever so slightly to lean against his desk, his gauntlets creasing the parchment of the maps behind him.  
  
"I wanted him to acknowledge you, you know."  
  
Alistair's breath stutters. "What?"  
  
"Or at least I thought you deserved some obscure title - a piece of land somewhere and a nod to show that you existed. I only discovered your existence when I was eighteen. It was rather a shock, to say the least." Cailan looks away, to the canvas wall of the tent. "Or perhaps not a shock at all. I'd wondered before, but there are always rumours. They don't usually have any basis. You know how the people like to gossip." Cailan fixes him with a level blue gaze. "After all, you're one of them."  
  
"You - "  
  
"I wanted to meet you, after I found out. Being an only child is perfectly tolerable until you realize there's another option." Another sigh. "My father didn't think it would be helpful. He was certain it would only make me insecure, and call the succession into further question."  
  
"I know he wasn't interested," Alistair says, trying and failing to brush that off. He's always known, but he sounds bitterer than he expected. That, if nothing else, is new; he thought that particular wound might have at least been forgotten, if not healed. "Honestly, it's not like I'm surprised."  
  
Something stirs in Cailan's eyes: a faded, resigned sadness that Alistair understands all too well. He's seen it in Eamon's eyes, in Teagan's, even in the mirror - in eyes just different enough to remind him of what he isn't; to stop him getting cocky when he remembers the burden he's carrying in his veins. "I was."   
  
And there, that's the difference between them - Alistair would say it like an apology, a weakness, clutching it close to his chest; Cailan says it simply, loudly enough to hear, and his chin is held defiantly high. Actually, Alistair realizes, they have the same jaw.   
  
"I wondered about you," Cailan continues. "You would have been, what, twelve or thirteen then?"  
  
"Thirteen." Alistair's tongue is numb. He frowns slowly, blearily, half-convinced Urthemiel's showing him another nightmare. "I think."  
  
"I hoped you were safe, wherever you were. I thought the Chantry would be respectable enough. You'd be a Ser, at least. And then Duncan told me you were a Grey Warden." The older man smiles. "What I would give to swap our places."  
  
"Believe me, it isn't mutual," Alistair mutters.  
  
Something in Cailan's expression darkens. "Ah. The throne." He inhales sharply. "Did they offer it to you?"

"How - ?"  
  
"I received Duncan's missive shortly after he found you at Highever. He explained a few details. Since I apparently die in this battle," Cailan says, completely and terrifyingly unfazed, "that leaves the strongest claims as Anora's, or someone of Theirin blood. What happens here leaves only one person of that bloodline in Ferelden - you."  
  
This would be so much easier if Cailan was what Alistair had pegged him as - cheery and a little bit thick. This - this is different.  
  
"Eamon tried to put me forward at the Landsmeet," Alistair admits.  
  
"And were you crowned?"  
  
Alistair shakes his head. "No, thank the Maker. Patience and I publicly supported Anora. It seemed to do the job."  
  
Cailan nods, thoughtful rather than perturbed. "Well, the woman's more of a king than I'll ever be. But that makes this whole exercise rather futile, doesn't it?" His tone is falsely light - nearly as false as the bright smile that doesn't touch his eyes and his small, humourless laugh.  
  
Suddenly Alistair sees the resemblance, and it unnerves him. He shoves that aside to ask, "So you intentionally kept us out of the battle?"  
  
Cailan's smile is indulgent now, as if Alistair is an utter fool. "Of course I did."  
  
"You... you knew about me."  
  
"Yes." Cailan sighs. "I had... I don't know. Part of me hoped to avoid this conversation. And yet, part of me was hoping to speak to you."  
  
"And you believe me?"  
  
"I have reason to." The smile he throws Alistair's way is more genuine this time. "Perhaps we can talk this over later. Give Loghain an unpleasant surprise."  
  
Loghain. That reminds Alistair of where they are - of  _who_  they are. He bows his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."  
  
"Cailan, if you don't mind. We do share blood."  
  
It's so strange hearing Cailan himself say that, the truth finally in the open - terrifying, too. "Right," Alistair says woodenly. He turns to leave, sensing the end of the conversation.  
  
"You remind me a lot of our father," Cailan says from behind him.  
  
He sighs. "Yes, I've heard. The nose and the jaw. It doesn't really matt - "  
  
"No. Actually, it's the total lack of respect for authority." Cailan's tone is odd - there's amusement in it, and maybe something vaguely mournful.  
  
Alistair can't help his sarcasm as he replies, "Thank you."   
  
He hears Cailan give a small laugh. "And that, too." He pauses. "Good luck, brother. I think you'll need it."  
  
Alistair pauses. "Half-brother," he corrects. The difference seems important, somehow. He keeps walking and ducks out of the tent, the sunlight suddenly blinding.

* * *

She's looking for Alistair.  
  
She knows intellectually that she shouldn't be - that he'll conclude his business with the king soon enough, and that she has more important things to attend to, like finding the other Warden recruits, but she can't help wondering where he is all the same.  
  
A hand clasps her on the shoulder, and she spins, a hand already on the hilt of her dagger.   
  
A terrifyingly large man with rather impressive facial hair, backs away from her. He gives her a grin, showing his palms by way of surrender. "Hold on. We can settle this peacefully."  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"I am called Grigor," he says simply, in a thick Anders accent.  
  
It triggers something - a flash and the memory of a familiar voice. "You beat Alistair in a drinking match once."  
  
"The templar boy?" Grigor laughs. "Yes. Once. He was the second to fall unconscious, if I recall." His face is wistful, but he manages to ground himself soon enough. "You have met him, then? We were going to send him to collect the fresh meat, but he disappeared a few days ago. We assumed he'd been lost in the Wilds, or tried to desert."  
  
She shakes her head. "He was in Highever." She has a feeling it would be a bad idea to try and explain that he deserted his post due to impossible time travel, so she just tries, "He was helping Duncan recruit me."  
  
"I see."  
  
She frowns at what he said earlier. "'Fresh meat'?"  
  
He just smiles broadly and implacably - there's no menace in it, but no pity either. "What we call the new recruits. Come, sister, let me introduce you to the rest of us."  
  
_Fresh meat._  She doesn't like the sound of that. Neither is she comfortable with anyone but Fergus calling her sister. Even so, she finds herself being led by the sheer force of the burly Anders' presence up a few slopes.  
  
Several men and a couple of women sit around a large campfire. Several of them are sharpening blades and checking over their armour, making preparations for battle. A few have their noses buried in books. Still others are chatting, the Wardens divided between excitement and visible nervous tension.  
  
"D'you think the Archdemon'll make an appearance?" she hears from somewhere around the fire.  
  
"D'you think one of us will get to kill it?" someone else pipes up.

It brings her mind back to Alistair. She should really be looking for him, or at least for the other two recruits. "I should be..."  
  
"Nonsense," Grigor tells her firmly, and with a hand on her arm he leads her closer to the fire. "We have another one!" he tells the assembled Wardens, and Patience fights not to shrink where she stands. She can't look weak - it'll just make a worse first impression.  
  
A small, armoured elven woman looks up from her book. Her features would be beautiful if they weren't quite so severe - her eyebrows are arched, her mouth pinched. "Is she Joined yet?"  
  
"No," Grigor concedes, "but it hardly matters."  
  
"You know we shouldn't be engaging with the main recruits yet. Leave it to the junior Warden." She casts her eyes beyond Patience, to the rest of the camp. "Wherever in the Beyond he is," she mutters.  
  
Patience, feeling incredibly unwelcome but thinking that it's probably a bad idea to resist, lets Grigor lead her further towards the fire, to a patch of ground closest to it. He takes a seat before elbowing a tall, gangly man next to him. "Shove up, Armley."  
  
The man scowls, then decides that he may well live longer if he doesn't argue with the burly Warden. His eyes alight on Patience, and he begrudgingly shifts to make room for the new additions to the camp. Patience quietly sinks to the ground and watches the fire, her chin resting on her hands. She isn't sure what else to do. Besides, in this camp of obviously experienced fighters she feels like a fraud.  
  
On her left, she feels someone nudge her. She looks to her side to see a brown-haired man giving her a warm grin. "Hey," he says in a definite Highever accent, "wanna know how the Wardens started out?"   
  
This she understands. His voice feels like home, like her family and the market square. She shakes her head, trying to extract herself from her trance.  
  
" _Do_ you wanna know?" he asks uncertainly.  
  
She finally lets her shoulders relax. "Oh. Sorry. Yes, please."  
  
They're halfway through the fall of the western dwarves' thaigs when Kean - as she now knows her companion's name is - pauses and looks over his shoulder. His grin widens. "The prodigal son returns!"  
  
She looks over her shoulder to see Alistair walking into the camp, his footsteps slow. He pauses as he takes in the scene, a thousand different things in his eyes.  
  
She sees the exact moment when he spots her; he smiles at her like just the sight of her is enough to make his day better. The honesty in it, the way his face changes - even through the unshaven scruff a day has left, his obvious tiredness, it lights him up from the inside. It suits him so utterly and completely that it leaves her breathless, only able to respond with a smile of her own, and wanting to...  
  
She wants...  
  
_Oh._


	13. Meetings

_It's weird; sometimes it feels like I've known her forever, and then I realize it's only been a year. Less than that, even. How can so much change so fast?_

* * *

Thank you, Urthemiel.

Yet another thing Alistair never thought he'd say, but as he pauses to take in the sight before him, the words are in his head nonetheless. The Wardens are sitting round the fire, just like old times - and they're all  _alive_ , Maker, what has he done to deserve this? - and Patience...  
  
He wants to keep this moment, this odd fluke, wrap it up warm and bring it out again on the nights where he's shivering and all too aware that the love of his life has no idea who he is. Patience is smiling at him like they're around a very different campfire - like it's the midst of a Blight, and she loves him again.   
  
This is a picture of things he hoped for, things snatched away with the Blight and the nightmares. It's almost enough to break his heart.  
  
He hears the Highever man (he's forgetting their names now, how could he let himself do that, why is he pausing before he remembers?) - Kean, he has it now - clear his throat. "Where you been, then?" the other Warden asks.  
  
Alistair shrugs, grinning at him. "Oh, you know... just Highever. No big deal." From the corner of his eye, he sees Patience duck her head, a gesture that tells him she's suppressing laughter. One more small victory for today, then.  
  
"Yeah, thanks for the help with the recruits an' all," Kean drawls sarcastically.  
  
Alistair freezes.  _Damn._  Of course that's still a pressing issue. If he hasn't... Wait. "Daveth and Jory?"  
  
"You need to sort them for the Joining," Kean says, and then adds, nodding to Patience, "This one, too. She shouldn't even be in this camp."  
  
For a mad moment, Alistair wants to exclaim that Kean's being a fool, of  _course_  she'll survive, he knows that - then he realizes that he'll be telling her Grey Warden secrets she really shouldn't know yet, and it'll all raise the question of  _how_  exactly he can be sure she'll live... Maker, this is a mess. If he does what's apparently his duty as a Warden, it will at least give them some time to talk away from prying eyes. His and Patience's prior acquaintance has certainly been noticed, and a couple of Wardens are watching them with interest. He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, huffing out a sigh. "Yes. Yes, of course. Who brought her here, anyway?"  
  
Kean and three other Wardens point wordlessly at Grigor, who just shrugs. "You left her to wander, boy. She was looking for you."  
  
"Oh." He looks at Patience as if to ask her whether that's true; something wary hides behind her eyes, and she quickly averts her gaze. That's weird. He walks to the fire and offers her a hand. "We ought to see Duncan. He'll help us work out or next move."  
  
She nods and gives him a small, thin smile - a shadow of the blinding thing he saw before - and takes his proffered hand. She climbs to her feet, and as the two of them leave the camp, she asks him, "So, how did things go with the king?"  
  
He sighs. It seems he's been doing that far too much lately, as if life just loves to knock the wind out of him. "He knows about Loghain. That makes things easier, at least. And he knows... something else. Something else that I probably should have told you earlier. Patience, how much do you remember of Redcliffe, exactly?"  
  
There's a rather worrying silence beside him, and he looks to his side to find Patience standing stock-still, her eyes clouded with sudden memory. "Wynne?"

* * *

Wynne.  
  
Patience wonders if the mage will even recognize her; whether it would be a futile endeavour to run up to the old woman and greet her like an old friend. "Will she remember me?" she asks Alistair.  
  
 _She_  remembers well enough. She remembers reaching desperately for the mage and crying into her robes, refusing to admit it the next morning; she remembers admiring the older woman's composure after braving the horrors of the Circle. (When did they go to the Circle? The place has always terrified her; the tales of what goes on there make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Besides, imprison that many unwilling people in one limited space and something's bound to snap... Something  _did_ , her mind tells her, but it's a fog; reaching for answers only makes them seem further away.)  
  
"I doubt it," Alistair replies, a melancholy note in his voice. "But you can try. I mean, it's," he swallows, "it's not totally hopeless, is it?"  
  
Patience remembers, then, the conversations that had gone on around her - only snippets; so much is missing, but she knows enough to understand. Wynne was the closest Alistair has ever had to family. She only feels that she's taken his hand when he looks at her in surprise; she's never been the touchy-feely type, but she knows he is. This is something she can give him. She clasps his hand, remembering the heat of his skin, the desperate way he clung to her after the nightmare; just that simple contact is enough to ignite something in her - warm and almost close to pain - that she's afraid of examining too closely. Later, perhaps. When there isn't a Blight to end. "I... I know a little of what she was to you," she says. "She loved you like her son."  
  
The two of them stand, their hands entwined, and watch the mage. Wynne leans against a pillar, watching the comings and going of Ostagar, and catches sight of them. She frowns, carefully pretending not to notice them - waiting for them to make the next move. An intelligent approach, certainly, and the same one Patience would take in her position.  
  
Patience steels herself. "I have to try," she decides, and, letting go of Alistair's hand, takes the few steps required to actually greet the mage. "Senior Enchanter."  
  
Wynne stares at her, seeming more puzzled than perturbed, and manages a polite smile - there's no flash of memory, no sudden recognition, and no real warmth behind it. "Have we met?"  
  
That smile means nothing. For the first time in her life, Patience understands how Alistair must feel every day, with everyone he knows. The weight of that new knowledge is truly awful, so heavy that it's almost dizzying. She remembers Alistair's first words to her, and says, "A long time ago. You probably don't remember me. I'm... I'm the new Warden recruit."  
  
"Ah." Wynne exhales, relaxing now she has an avenue of conversation to pursue. She asks Patience whether she knows any of the stories about the Grey Wardens, and Patience embraces this conversation like an old friend, listening attentively to the story she knows by heart: the Wardens' first battle, and the inspiration the Order provides.  
  
"Thank you," she says, and it's perfectly sincere - almost painfully so. She needed this.  
  
Wynne wishes her luck as one would a stranger, and then Patience heads back to Alistair.  
  
"We really need to speak to Duncan," he says. "You need to be Joined before the king's meeting. If we arrive unprepared, we risk far too much." He exhales. "Sorry. It's... all a little terrifying, if I'm honest. Or a  _lot_  terrifying." A nervous laugh. "Any joy?"  
  
Patience shakes her head. "She didn't remember a thing. But it was something, at least. She's just like she always was." She feels an unexpected smile come to her lips. "I've missed her."  
  
"Me too." He says little else as they walk through the camp, unusually silent in reflection.

In lieu of contemplating her misery, she finds herself watching him, noting the strong profile and full mouth, the way his eyes change when he's thoughtful, darkening and becoming distant - details that shouldn't be familiar after so little time in his company, but feel like they are. She wonders if she made observations like this in their past life; if she pretended not to watch him. A small part of her admits that she could probably watch him forever; the rest of her clamps down on it and shoves it into a dark corner - she isn't some lovesick teenager, or some preening noble's daughter. Far too many other things take precedence over her - she struggles to find the right word - interest. She finds her mind drifting once again towards the way he instinctively reached for her, the trust he shows her, and wonders if he ever considered...  
  
No. He's said they were friends during the Blight. Very close friends, but there was no suggestion of anything else. Surely, if at least one of them sought something more, there would have been an indication, a sign? They spent a year in each other's company, and not one overture was made? If they were both the same people in that year, and neither of them had made any sort of move towards a romantic entanglement then -  
  
She thinks she knows what that means. He wasn't interested. He  _isn't_  interested.  
  
She's saddened but not ultimately surprised. She's always been too tall, too flat; too cold or too weak; too scruffy, when she isn't being groomed for meetings with the nobles. It shouldn't bother her as much as it does, but she looks away, lest he catch her staring and sense her idiocy. If the other Patience - no, if  _her_  relationship with him was platonic last time they fought the Blight, what's changed to make her feel this way now? What's happened differently? She doesn't understand.  
  
"Alistair. Patience."  
  
Duncan's voice startles her from her unpleasant reverie, and she makes sure to look attentive. "Ser."  
  
Duncan smiles at her. "I would usually ask new recruits to find Alistair, but since you seem to have made a fine job of that on your own, I would like you to find the others and begin preparations for the Joining."  
  
They nod and mutter affirmatives, and she looks to Alistair. "Lead on." They walk further into camp, and she looks around. "You mentioned a Daveth and a Jory?"  
  
"Yep." He gestures to a stone slope a little way ahead of them. "Last I heard, Jory was up there somewhere, with the sisters."  
  
She considers that, making sure to remember it, but is distracted. "I thought I saw a quartermaster's when I was looking around. Would you know where - ?"  
  
"Over there," he replies, pointing. He shakes his head. "I can't believe I still remember. It's been a year for me, and yet it's all as clear as yesterday. It's like I'm mentally stuck here." That thought appears to be a discomfiting one; he shifts, grimacing.  
  
She makes it to the quartermaster's stall and begins browsing, her mind blessedly filled to capacity for a few short minutes with armour, blades and potions. She settles on a better, more protective pair of leathers and buys a couple of health potions, thanking the quartermaster for his assistance. She turns, the leathers bundled in her hands and the potions in her belt, expecting to find Alistair waiting for her or browsing wares himself, but instead he's lost in thought, his eyes focused on a spot some feet away. She draws up beside him, following his gaze, and...  
  
"I remember."

He looks at her, and says, as if unsure how to respond to that, "You do?"  
  
She knows now what his first words - his true first words, not the panicked ones uttered in the castle grounds - were. She knows how they met. "You made me laugh," she notes. Her voice sounds as if it's coming from very far away.   
  
She wasn't sure what to think of that, at first - half of her wanted to hate him for it, because she was covered in blood and  _her parents were dead, Oren was dead,_  she was mourning and he'd made her  _laugh_. He'd broken the spell for a moment, reached the numb, rusty part of her from  _before_. Before Howe's men and before the castle burned; before she had been this silent, sleepwalking  _thing_  she no longer recognized. It had erupted from her, a harsh, shocking bark of laughter which made her rock on her heels. She wondered, afterwards, whether hatred was the right response, and settled on relief, too exhausted or too pained to do otherwise. He'd given her a moment free of the pain, before it closed in again - a moment long enough to smile, to reply. She liked him, she realized - he was quick, refreshing, but nice enough; the only one of them offended was the mage, and Alistair was perfectly polite, if a little apologetic, when he settled into an uncomfortable sort of conversation with her. The respite the laughter gave her was momentary; the fog was settling over her again, and he looked more and more concerned the more she tried to converse, to mask what she was thinking.  
  
"I remember hearing this great guffaw," he remarks. "And it was... you looked like you needed it. And I was flattered, though you certainly managed to piss off the mage. And when you actually spoke to me, you looked like you were putting up a shield. I can't explain it, but you frightened me."  
  
"You kept telling jokes," she recalls.  
  
"You smiled." He's looking at her, giving her a smile of his own, his eyes practically sparkling with it. "I just needed to get a rise out of you, a laugh, something. You smiled, and I knew we were going to be alright."  
  
And apparently they were.  
  
 _You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together._  
  
She finds herself agreeing, sarcastic as the statement was.  
  
"How did I - They were all dead." To her embarrassment, she feels tears welling in her eyes, and refuses to let them fall. "How did I cope, with them gone?"  
  
There is a silence between them as Alistair seems to turn the question over in his head, being careful about how he answers it. "Truthfully," he tells her after a little while, "you didn't. You pretended to for a while, and did a very good job of it. Honestly, I was surprised when you, well, cried on my shoulder. It was months before I found out you'd gone to Wynne for help. It faded, I think. It didn't go away. I don't think things like that ever do."  
  
"I can't imagine it. That was really how it happened, the first time? I still can't... Nothing in me can understand it."   
  
"Hopefully you'll never have to."  
  
"Hopefully," she agrees. "You seemed awfully anxious to prevent it from happening."  
  
"I saw what it did to you." His voice is low, his anger palpable. It silences any reply she might have had; this is the same man she saw when he woke from the nightmare, and it scares her a little. Alistair clears his throat. "I suppose we'd better find Jory."  
  
"I admit, half of me really wants to see Fergus."  
  
It takes a good few seconds of attempting not to, but Alistair sighs. "You do look a bit shaken. Be quick. And grab Daveth afterwards. He's fairly easy to spot; he'll be the one getting rejected by every female soldier in camp."   
  
She recovers her happiness. "Thank you. I will be."  
  
He shrugs, cheerfully but resignedly. "I guess you just bring out the worst in me."

She runs to the soldiers' portion of the camp, and finds Fergus...  
  
Sitting next to his tent, eating buttered bread with the king. She stops short, opening her moth and unsure what quite to say next. Eventually settles on, "Your Majesty. Fergus."  
  
Cailan nods by way of greeting. "Patience."  
  
Fergus gives her a bemused smile. "Problem, sister?"  
  
It isn't as if she hasn't seen the king in her family's company before; he's always been a regular visitor to the castle, and "Prince Cailan" was a good friend of Fergus's. She herself has regularly spoken to him when he's visited for royal and social matters, and found him enjoyable company. It's just that with the gleaming armour and the fame he carries in his wake, it can be a little, well,  _much_  if she's not prepared. Especially after she's spent so much time with soldiers and Wardens; she feels less like a noble than ever, scruffy and rather unwelcome.   
  
"I just stopped by to see you," she explains. "It'll have to be quick; Alistair's taking the other recruits and I out into the Wilds. Joining preparations."  
  
Fergus gestures to the ground beside him, and Patience sits.   
  
The king has taken the clothes chest, as befits his station - and the fact that that monstrous plate severely limits movement. His smile is the sort that wins over crowds when he gives speeches, makes maidens swoon and coins more easily cast; it's odd to see here, rather than in a palace. "It feels a long time since I've seen the Teyrn and Teyrna. How are your parents?"  
  
"They're well," she replies. "Worried about us, but I can hardly blame them."  
  
"Of course. A soldier and a Grey Warden! It's a wonder they haven't come to drag you back themselves."   
  
"They tried," Fergus mutters. "You should have seen their reaction when Duncan announced the conscription. Mother looked like she was about to punch him."  
  
Cailan winces. "A formidable woman. My father used to tell stories about her. Then again, he used to talk of Arl Howe's bravery, too - it isn't much in evidence."  
  
Can no-one speak of anything but the closely-averted massacre? It's making her feel tired, worn down by the weight of an event she's never even seen. "I slit the bastard's throat. It was enough."  
  
Cailan looks surprised at her bluntness, and yet thoughtful. When he confesses, it's quiet, with much consideration behind it. "I'm sure I would have done the same, court be damned." And then he's all good cheer and evasion. "But I didn't mean to bring you down. A beautiful day, isn't it? No rain to impede the armies, and a flat battlefield. I pray the weather holds when we do fight."   
  
"Truly a Fereldan king," Fergus scoffs. "When all else fails, talk about the weather."  
  
Cailan sends him a look that conveys more humour than offense. "I'll thank you to hold your tongue. Unless you'd like to be beheaded, that is." He returns to his bread, eating in a way that would inspire terror in the nobles.  
  
"Very kingly," Fergus laughs.  
  
Cailan mutters something into his bread that probably isn't very kingly either. After swallowing, he says sombrely, "A monarch must retain his dignity at all times."  
  
Patience's lips twitch at that, and she turns to Fergus. "I should be going. I'm... I'm just glad you're here." She hugs him - hastily, barely there and then gone - and stands.  
  
Fergus seems genuinely astonished. "This isn't like you, Patience. Is there anything I need to know?"  
  
She shakes her head. "Nothing in particular. I'm just glad." She turns to Cailan. "Be seeing you, Your Majesty."  
  
"Look after yourself," he replies. "Oh, and Alistair. It seems as if he needs it."  
  
She barely has time to wonder at that before she's setting off to find Daveth, but she hears Fergus ask, "The Warden? What's that about?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," Cailan says casually. "Just affairs of state."

* * *

There is nothing reassuring in the appraising look the guard at the Korcari Wilds gates gives their little party. It is less a look of respect and more curiosity about who will die first. Daveth, though he's attempting to hide it, is tense, his hands on his dagger hilts - his posture and the look in his eyes belie the confident swagger he's been putting on display. Jory is fidgeting nervously, causing regular sounds of shifting chainmail, and his eyes dart around as if he's constantly looking for a trap. Afraid, the both of them. Only Alistair, truthfully, seems calmer than this situation warrants - but then he's done this before, seen the outcome. This can't end horrifically badly, then.  
  
Acquiring darkspawn blood and old treaties. Hardly the most glamorous entry into the Wardens.  
  
"How long will we be?" she asks Alistair as the guard - albeit reluctantly and with one last caveat - opens the gates.  
  
He shrugs. "A few hours, if we're lucky. Maybe longer, depending on how quickly we finish this."  
  
He addresses the others with, "Stay close and be ready to fight."  
  
He's different in the Wilds; the humour is there, but at the forefront is something rather different - he's the senior Warden, he's leading them, and none of them will forget that in a hurry. She catches pieces of conversation between Daveth and Jory, but allows it to fade to a hum, too focused on the Wilds around them. She's heard the rumours; men have been ambushed in these Wilds. The darkspawn have held it for a while now, and probably know the land better than they do.   
  
Occasionally Jory will talk about Highever. There's something comforting in it, though it induces as much melancholy as pleasure in her. She misses her parents and Rory; she misses the smell of the sea and the halls of the castle.   
  
"You hail from Highever too, don't you?" he asks.  
  
It shakes her out of her homesickness, yet also makes it stronger. "Was it the accent?"  
  
"It was. Whereabouts are you from?"  
  
He's looking for an area or a street; she internally freezes, grasping for answers. She could tell him the truth, but she doubts it would win her any favour. She'd once again be the "spitfire" or "the Cousland daughter", rather than a fellow prospective Warden. She can already tell they don't respect her; Jory seems doubtful of her ability, looks at her like she's too young, and Daveth's odd sly comments leave her in no doubt that he sees her as a woman first and a fighter second.   
  
It surprises her as much as it irritates her: she's had the odd positive comment - from her mother, and once from Nathaniel Howe, what seems like forever ago, when the name didn't make her gut twist and her fists clench - but mostly she only seems to garner any second looks when she's forced into a dress, made up so she can't recognize herself in the mirror. Her mother has said the odd thing about how she's attractive, but it could be more obvious - has spoken of Patience "looking after herself better" and "dressing differently", and Patience wonders if that's what Mother meant: the over-pampered mask she wears at balls.  
  
Yet Daveth still seems to view her as some sort of candidate. How odd. The most likely explanation is that she has a pulse and a pair of breasts (small as they are, she mentally adds, glancing at them before pretending she hasn't, mortified at her own distraction).  
  
"Uhm," she tries, "I'm from... near the markets. You know, near the, the hill path."

She hears a cough - in fact, a barely disguised laugh - from ahead of them, and knows Alistair is amused at her expense. Well, it's hardly as if he's a better liar.  
  
"Hm," Jory says, apparently unbalanced by this. "I'd have thought you from near the castle."  
  
"She's got diction that'd make a noble jealous," Daveth chips in. "And" - he pointedly lets his eyes rake over her - "other things, as well."  
  
Jory frowns at him, and she swallows, intensely uncomfortable under his gaze, then steels herself. "I'm honestly unsure whether to hit you or laugh at you. Either response is all you deserve." She suddenly hates how plummy she sounds; it was never a problem at home, where she had an entire family who were the same. It isn't as if she hasn't been subjected to innuendo before - and sometimes had occasion to laugh - but the observation and the way it pries make her feel naked in the worst possible way.  
  
Alistair doesn't even turn, but his dry response is more than enough. "Oh, I'm rapidly edging towards the 'hit him' camp. But as a representative of the Wardens, I'm not meant to say things like that, am I?"   
  
Daveth's lechery has evidently been noted and disapproved of. By someone who has the ear of their commanding officer, at that. The thief finally shuts his mouth, but not before giving raising his eyebrows, giving Patience a last once-over, and saying, "Can't blame a man for trying."  
  
Gathering her poise, she straightens her back like she's at a formal dinner and tells him, "Oh, I can. And they will  _never_  find the body. I'll murder you impeccably politely, however."

Daveth grins at her, and she recognizes the look he gives her for what it is: respect. "Feisty." He raises his hands in surrender. "I know where I'm not wanted, love." He wryly adds to Jory, "Told you she was posh."  
  
And then with Alistair's warning of "Darkspawn!", there's little time for thoughts of home. They descend before she has time to think, to  _breathe._

One nears her, and the monstrosity of it - the reek of it, the way it looks like a man gone horribly wrong - makes her freeze. She was not... she was never prepared for this. Nothing could prepare her for this. (She hears the cries of pain the other beasts give, knows that they can  _feel_  pain, and she wonders, her mind ticking too fast and too much and too too afraid...) She backs away, not using the daggers in her hands, and the darkspawn gives her something that, even under the gore and amongst the twisted features, she knows is a smile.  
  
Victory. It senses victory, and she's going to give it victory through her own stupidity, a pampered little girl playing at fighting -  
  
"It's someone you hate!" Daveth calls to her, and at first she doesn't understand, but then he calls, "It's the bastard who got you arrested, the one in the marketplace!"  
  
She doesn't take her eyes off the darkspawn, but as she understands, it changes before her eyes. She grits her teeth and _moves_. The bastard  _deserves_  it. She remembers being the last surviving Cousland. She remembers Alistair looking at her like she was about to break in front of him.   
  
She  _remembers._  
  
It's all suddenly too easy; she moves like she's dying, like she has to, and the splatter of blood on her skin doesn't bother her as much as it probably should. In, around, breathe,  _move_ , take the payment owed. They die. She moves, and remembers.  
  
"Who's Howe?"  
  
Daveth's question drags her spirit back into her body, makes her aware that the four of them have won - that she's covered in blood and breathing like a horse. She exhales shakily, unsure how to answer.  
  
"You said something about 'Howe' while you were fighting. You said, 'It's Howe.' That sounded a bit familiar."  
  
A mistake. A foolish mistake. She should have been on her guard, not wading into the fight with abandon. Her mother's teachings, Rory's teachings - worthless if she forgets them all.  
  
"No-one of consequence," she replies, her tone telling him in clear terms to let her keep that secret in its grave.  
  
The silence stretches, and then Alistair remarks, "The first one's always the hardest." He's come to stand with them, observing the corpses. Next to her, he sheathes his sword. The sound is far too loud, too final, in the hush that's fallen over them. "They don't tell you that when you're recruited - you only hear it after you've done it, from the older Wardens. It's much easier once the first one's out of the way. I promise." His eyes meet hers, unflinching, and she wishes he'd smile. Just once would be enough; she misses it already.  
  
She nods, wordless. Half of her is still reeling from the fight; the other half of her is horrified that she had more sympathy for a darkspawn than a human being, even if that human being was Rendon Howe. That can't possibly be healthy.

"Has anyone got any wounds?" he asks. "Anything open. Not even from this fight. A cut's enough."  
  
"Enough for what?" Jory asks nervously.  
  
"Their blood's poisonous. If you've swallowed it, or if it's in you somehow, you're Tainted, and believe me, that is  _not_  a good thing. Wardens are immune to it, but you won't be. Anyone?"  
  
She checks herself over and sees nothing. Alistair looks at the other two, a cursory check, but his eyes linger when he reaches her, his mouth tight. She remembers what Duncan asked Alistair when he protested to her recruitment.  _And what will you say when she is tainted and dying after the first fight?_  She remembers just as well Alistair's horror at the idea.  
  
"A cut. Here." Jory calls. "On my wrist. It's small, though, and I was wearing gloves. It's unlikely any blood entered it."  
  
Alistair seems to come to his senses, acknowledging the knight. "You're probably alright. Everyone's had a little exposure; it's unlikely to kill us. The Joining can stop it worsening, anyway, but the illness won't do you any favours if you have to be alert and fighting. Come on."  
  
They trail behind him, Jory in particular still appearing to be slightly stunned, as he gathers the blood from the bodies, draining it into vials. Then they venture on.  
  
She manages to keep her focus the next time they run into the darkspawn, dragging back enough sense to fight  _and_  think. She still sees Howe, but the picture is secondary - secondary to her training, her awareness of the creatures, the sounds of the others fighting around her, and...  
  
She will not stare. She has more dignity and more important things to do. She's just wrested her concentration from the brink. She  _will not_  stare, and she will concentrate on beheading the darkspawn in front of her. And yet...  
  
She has the horrible realization that when they sparred, Alistair was going  _easy_  on her. She's never truly seen him fight. What happened in the woods was a scuffle at best, and the glimpses she saw in the training yard did him no justice. There's a grace to the way he fights - a kind very different from the dances of the nobles' sons, from the way Daveth moves, and yet it's there. There's beauty in it, too. Rory would laugh, tell her she's romanticizing it all and that she's never had to do the drills, but Rory never moved like  _this_  - never had to in their sparring sessions, when there was no real danger and he didn't want to break the nobles' daughter.   
  
She recovers herself, ducking a darkspawn's blade and despatching it as quickly as she can. The feel and the sound of her daggers cutting through flesh nauseate her; she staggers, nearly losing her footing. Foolish.  _Concentrate,_ Patience!

Yet her eyes continue to stray to him. He beheads a darkspawn simply and impatiently, as if he has better things to do. Like it's routine, easy as breathing. The flow and the smoothness of training - she even recognizes a few moves - are tempered by the very real risk of their situation; there's a roughness and a brute strength, and a very precise control. Skill and savagery. Interesting.  
  
She should have known, really. The Wardens - and indeed, even the Templars - take only the finest. She remembers him saying that he was hardly the best of the Chantry's possible recruits, and the templars scare her even more than they always have. She remembers him saying that he doesn't know why he was chosen to be a Warden, and thinks him a fool.  
  
She fights on, her mouth dry. Daveth, too, is something to behold, moving like air - he's there and gone before the darkspawn know they're dead. Jory is workmanlike - there's little impressiveness, little Chantry finesse to the way he fights - but more than proficient. She feels even more a fool. What is she doing here? Who thought she was ready for this? Next to these men, she's practically a defenceless child.  
  
The thought makes her falter, lets the last darkspawn raise its hand to her throat. It lifts her, gleeful. She struggles, fighting not to panic; she can't breathe, she can't  _breathe_  - Its hand. Of course. Its  _hand_. She slashes at the tendons below its knuckles, desperate but enough. It emits what's clearly a scream, staggering back and releasing her. She drops, crying out as she lands hard and jarringly, her right wrist taking the brunt of it. " _Fuck!"_  Her eyes sting, tears forming. She blinks them back. No time. She has to see. She raises her stronger hand, shoves the dagger half-blindly into its chest, under its ribs, and jabs upwards.  
  
The heart, her mother taught her. She twists the blade, and prays.  
  
 _Please -_  
  
It falls with a startled grunt, and she laughs, tears running down her cheeks. All she wants, all she needs, is to rest for a moment. Not for long, just enough to let her  _think_.  
  
She hears Daveth laugh. "The lady's got a mouth on her." A pause. "Hey, is she alright?"  
  
Someone takes her hand, and she uses it to pull herself up. Lying in the dirt like a coward; thank the Maker she hasn't given anyone her name - she'd be an embarrassment to her family. Her vision's clearing, and she realizes that it's Jory who helped her up. "Thank you."  
  
" _Are_  you alright?" he asks her, his brow creasing in concern. He looks back to the others. "Perhaps she should go back to camp."  
  
She shakes her head. "I can't."  
  
"She's right," Alistair confirms. "We all have to do this."

She walks back to the others, the simple action of sheathing one of her daggers making her grit her teeth. Her eyes water anew. She falls into step with Alistair and asks him bitterly, "Did this happen, too?"  
  
He can't meet her eye. "It did. I should have been - I was distracted, and I didn't know  _when_  exactly it happened. It's a sprain, the healer says. We'll get it sorted when we're back in camp."  
  
"You can't see everything. You can't  _do_  everything, either," she admits. "It was my fault. I wasn't focused, I was afraid... You aren't fighting for me. I can do this myself." She barely believes her own words, but she feels hopeless enough already without him trying to protect her, too. Her mistakes, at least, are her own.  
  
He sighs. "You're right. I'm sorry. But... it gets better. The first time I fought them, I screamed like a girl. A very small, very whiny girl. I was teased about it for... oh, ever." He smiles at her.  
  
She indulges him with the laugh he's seeking and then falls back with the others, tense and waiting for the next fight.  
  
"So," Daveth says overly casually, "are you and him - ?" He raises an eyebrow, the movement somehow more offensive than the finished question.  
  
She recoils. " _No._  Of course not."  
  
She jumps as he says into her ear, "Funny, that, with the way you were staring at him."  
  
She feels herself flush, and hates him for it. "Neither of us have any interest in..."  
  
"Really?" he interrupts equally softly, and saunters to her side. "'Cos he was doing his fair share of looking too."  
  
She stares at him, off-balance, and then glances disbelievingly at Alistair, unable to help wondering -   
  
No. Nothing happened before, and nothing will.  
  
Daveth laughs, and she knows he was trying to unsettle her. He has his reaction, and she's a fool for allowing it. She shakes her head and keeps walking.

* * *

The important treaties are thoroughly unremarkable, tucked away in an old, broken chest - a chest she's just preparing to open when there is a voice behind her.  
  
"Well, well, what have we here?"  
  
She knows this voice; knows it very well indeed. She glances at Alistair, the two of them evidently sharing the same thought, and they turn.  
  
"Morrigan." They both seem shocked that they've said it in unison.  
  
The witch's face falls. "Ah. Mother warned me this might happen."


	14. Warden

_We ended up talking about the Joining, for some reason. I remember being so calm about the fact she might not survive, and I wonder how I ever could have thought that way. That calm scares me, these days._

* * *

Alistair takes his eyes off Morrigan to glare at Patience, seeming more than a little offended. "You remember  _her_ " - his hand striking out to gesture at the subject of their conversation - "the first time you meet, but not me? Seriously? Of all the good things you could've - Did I really make that little of an impression?"

"It's not as if I can help it," Patience counters, equally irritated. "And I'd forgotten how bloody  _snappish_  you were round her, too. I remembered Wynne and you didn't jump down my throat."  
  
Daveth still looks horrified, backing away from Morrigan and the argument that's broken out. "You know her? She's a Witch of the Wilds. She'd eat your heart as soon as look at you!"  
  
"'Witch of the Wilds'?" Morrigan echoes mockingly. "I suppose I am." Her cheer seems to disappear as she looks at Patience and Alistair. "Enough. Cease your bickering. You know what we must do."  
  
Alistair sighs. "Your mother has the treaties, doesn't she?"  
  
"Indeed she does. Follow me."  
  
Jory says, shrinking, "This can't be a good idea."  
  
"Trust us," Patience tells him, and he has no choice but to do so.  
  
"Which one of you did the deed?" Morrigan asks as she leads them through the swamp. "Mother tells me 'twas the idiot, but I find it hard to believe he could stumble anywhere near an Archdemon, never mind kill it." Her voice is half-playful. This is an old, comfortable rhythm, and she's enjoying resuming it.  
  
"His name is Alistair," Patience corrects her. "You appear to have forgotten that."  
  
"Hey!" Alistair protests. "She could've been talking about you."  
  
"She wasn't. I remember enough to know that."  
  
He looks at Morrigan. "She doesn't remember that, by the way. She barely remembers most of the Blight." Patience hears a loudly implied so keep your mouth shut in there, and Patience wonders why he'd want her not to know what went on. It worries her.  
  
Morrigan's eyes widen briefly, infinitesimally, and then the flash of weakness is gone, replaced by something smug and, Patience suspects, false. "I'll allow her to enjoy the surprise, then." Morrigan's tone is snide. What surprise? It certainly can't be good.  
  
Daveth and Jory are watching them in confusion and more than a little fear. She realizes how this must look, and wonders why Alistair hasn't made more of an effort to keep the details of their acquaintance secret. Surely it will be difficult to explain. Isn't he afraid of rumours spreading amongst the Wardens, of having people fighting with them who are more afraid of them than confident in them?  
  
"I'd hoped you'd be unaware of what transpired," the witch continues as she leads them, not even looking at Daveth and Jory. As if the other recruits are beneath her notice, insignificant. It worries Patience as much as it irritates her. "It would have made things easier."  
  
"I'm sure it would," Alistair says sourly. "It would allow you to lie to us  _all. Over. Again."_  
  
"I had little choice. If it were up to me, it would be done again in a heartbeat."

What would be done again?  
  
"I bet it would. But then, it's not like you have a heart under all that."  
  
Morrigan shakes her head, and that seems to be an end to the conversation. Alistair opens his mouth to argue, but Patience tells him firmly, "Stop. It's not worth it."  
  
She's unsure of where they're going - Morrigan seems at ease, though, her stride purposeful. Her strange array of beads, feathers, the odd jewel, clink when she walks, odd and yet beautiful. As is Morrigan. Patience has always thought so - anyone with eyes to see would think so - but the witch is beautiful in the way of brightly-coloured snakes and mabari kaddis: it's dangerous and unsettling, a weapon and a statement of intent. This beauty is made to intimidate, not to attract.  
  
They turn around twice, climb up little slopes and through bushes, mud becoming thick underfoot. Mercifully, they see no more darkspawn. Either the monsters aren't in the Wilds, or Morrigan knows exactly how to avoid them. Patience remembers her leading them out of the Wilds, to Lothering, and realizes that it's very probably the latter. Somehow, though, it appears they're actually progressing, though it does sometimes feel like they're being led in circles - in more ways than one.  
  
Lothering? What? Why was she - ?   
  
She shakes her head, unwilling to grasp for answers that won't come. She's learned the hard way that getting frustrated doesn't help matters at all - it clouds any remnants of her concentration, distracting her from any memories she might have retrieved. She disregards it and keeps walking.  
  
The small hut they approach is nothing imposing, simple and tumbledown, but Alistair - after a couple of minutes of looking more and more unsettled, and frowning in concentration - takes her arm and tells her quietly, "Careful. There's power coming off this place in spades. The Veil's torn to shreds. I was too wound up... I didn't think to look for it before."

Why would he - ? Oh. Templar.  
  
A pause. "No, I'm wrong. She was  _hiding_  it last time - she easily could have, she's that good - and she isn't even bothering this time round. Andraste's sword, she knows I know."  
  
"That was... the most confusing sentence I've ever heard," Patience manages faintly.  
  
"Just stay close to me. And be ready to fight a dragon if you have to." She gapes at him, but he only relays the order to Daveth and Jory. "Be on your guard."  
  
Morrigan disappears into the hut. The short, ragged old woman standing outside it grins at them through blackened, gapped teeth. Flemeth. The Flemeth.Asha'bellinar. Patience remembers fighting the dragon, and she remembers nearly losing... someone... Lel? Lily? No. Neither sound right.   
  
Flemeth looks at her, and Patience knows that she is aware of exactly what's going on her head. "Believe me, girl, sometime it's better to forget. Sometimes" - and she looks entirely too pleased at the prospect, crooked, rotting teeth bared even further as her grin widens - "the memories destroy you." The witch looks over at Alistair. "Don't they?"  
  
He shifts uncomfortably, but stands his ground. "Look, we're just here to get the treaties and go. I don't want - "  
  
"What you want is irrelevant." Flemeth laughs at that. "What he wants is considerably less so. I imagine he's pulling the strings?"  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Alistair replies, too curtly. His expression and his posture scream discomfort.  
  
"Of course he is. Or he wouldn't have sent you back here." Flemeth grins at him, enjoying his discomfort for a few moments more, before sighing. "But if it's treaties you want, treaties you must have." She turns in the direction of the hut. "Daughter!" she calls.  
  
Morrigan appears, carrying - clearly reluctantly - a scroll comprised of several pieces of parchment, neatly rolled and tied. The string is obviously new - it looks rather different to the documents themselves. She passes the scroll to Patience, who falls back on old etiquette. "Thank you," she says with a smile, the only normal part of this conversation she's had.  
  
Morrigan nods.  
  
Her mother asks her to escort them back, and she does. When she reaches the structure where the treaties should have been, she bids them farewell. "We will meet again soon." It probably shouldn't sound like so much of a threat.  
  
They trudge back through the Wilds, ready for the Joining. Patience doesn't miss the wary looks Jory and Daveth keep giving her and Alistair, or the way that the two mean keep their distance.

* * *

It all happens too fast. Once they've given the materials to Duncan, he allows them a few minutes to prepare.  
  
"The mages have a few good healers in their camp," Alistair tells her. "Ask around and you'll soon find one."  
  
So she takes a walk. Mages have always scared her a little, in truth - the idea of having that much power at her disposal makes her shrink; they can do things most people can only dream of, and yet it seems more of a curse than anything positive. She doesn't mind the mages themselves - she always liked Wynne well enough - but as a collective, she wonders how one could truly safeguard against them. They are many and terrifyingly powerful.  
  
And then she walks past the countermeasure, her shoulders slumping as they watch her like hawks. But then, why should she be surprised? That's their function, after all. To watch. To stand vigilant. No, she's hardly fond of the templars, either, with their anonymity and the blood they're required to shed. They scare her nearly as much as those they guard.  
  
She hurries her pace, heads to the first mage she sees and asks for healing. He's lanky, with dark hair that's shaggy and brushing his shoulders. He grins at her. "Coin first, healing later."  
  
She hands over twenty silvers - feeling rather cheated, if she's honest - and tenses as, after discerning the problem, he gently manipulates the wrist. When the healing magic begins to flow, she swallows. She should be used to it - she always had household healers, after all - but there's something invasive about the tendrils of light poking and prodding and re-setting...  
  
She looks away, suddenly nauseous.  
  
"There. Done," the mage tells her.  
  
She nods, finally looking at him. "Thank you."  
  
"No problem," is his cheerful response. "Thanks for the cash."   
  
He waves as she heads off back to Duncan. She waves back with her right hand, testing her newly-healed wrist, and there's barely a twinge of pain. It'll be as it was by tomorrow; he's done a good job, even with the exorbitant fee.  
  
That she remembers. And then there's a vow, and she understands, oh, the blood, and Daveth's eyes roll back in his head and she's stepping past Jory's body and she sees it.  
  
She didn't expect it to be pleasant; the blood tasted like a warning, like something hideous crawling into her throat, and her hazy memories have told her about the visions. Yet the Archdemon's still terrifying, massive and changed by the Blight in terrible ways. It roars and it sounds like a scream - and somewhere, distantly, she hears herself scream, too - but she barely has time to understand what's happening before the world slips from underneath her.

* * *

She wakes to the sight of Duncan and Alistair crouched beside her, the Warden Commander checking her pulse. She blinks furiously, the light too bright.

"I'm - I'm not dead," she says, or rather croaks - her voice sounds awful even to her own ears. She winces, which commences a new onslaught of blinking, her eyes watering. "Damn." She coughs.  
  
"Nope," Alistair laughs. "Not dead. I think you'd have noticed."  
  
Her eyes turn to Duncan, and she stares at him in horror. "Jory... You - "  
  
Duncan says, calmly, but with the hint of a sigh, "He drew his weapon. He had made his choice. He would have killed me if I hadn't taken action."

 "I can't..." She chokes, coughs once more, the words a struggle. It's true - she knows it's true - and yet something in her still rebels at the idea of it, that death can come for someone so easily and be so casually forgotten. "Fine," she says curtly. She looks away from his gaze, hating herself for giving in. She wouldn't have a few days ago; perhaps she's becoming cold, uncaring - perhaps death's simple for her now. The thought frightens her.

Alistair sighs. His sad expression and the way his eyes meet hers suggest he knows exactly what she's thinking. Maybe he does; maybe she told him, the way she seems to have told him everything else. Maker, has she given this man all her secrets? He offers her a hand. "Up you get."

She takes it, climbing to her feet with a shaky exhale that nearly starts yet another coughing fit. "So, am I... am I a Warden now?" she asks.

"That you are," he tells her; though he says it cheerily, there's something else lurking in his expression, and he can't seem to look her in the eye. She remembers him pleading desperately with Duncan not to recruit her; she remembers their conversation in the training yard.

"Alistair," she sighs. She'd say anything to make him look at her again; she's watching him shrink, his confidence from the Wilds utterly gone. She should probably bring this up another time, when the wound isn't as fresh, but she's always been too hasty. "This was my choice. You have to respect that."

He hesitates. "Yes," he concedes after a moment. "That doesn't mean I have to like it."

She opens her mouth to argue, but hears a sharp, "Wardens." They both turn to Duncan; his expression is more long-suffering than angry. "There will be a meeting with the king tomorrow," he tells them. "You'll have time to settle in today, but I will need both of you to attend with me when the tide comes."

"Both of us?" Patience asks. "Why me? Only he has the Blight memories - " She looks sharply at Alistair. "I assume that's why you had to meet with the king? What's this about?"

If she thought he looked uncomfortable before, it now seems like he's attempting to bore a hole in the ground with his eyes. "I... After the meeting. Please?"

She recognizes a begging man when she sees one. She nods. "But I will ask."

He exhales, rolling his eyes. "Believe me, I know."

Part of her wants to push him further, to see exactly what he's holding so close to his chest. A better part of her - the one that remembers his kindness, that knows they were friends, perhaps are friends still, and doesn't want to endanger whatever this is; that takes far too much note of his odd beauty, and his laugh, and the way he touches her - knows that her curiosity has always been a damning thing, more trouble than it's worth. She stops before she can cross this particular line. Later. Because she will ask.

Duncan shakes his head. "Alistair still needs to perform the final step." He looks pointedly at the Warden before he turns to leave.

Alistair clears his throat and offers her a sheepish smile. "Right. Yes." He passes her something.

She frowns down at it: it's a pendant, a vial of... oh. "Is this the same darkspawn blood?"

"Yes, it is." He reaches out and closes her fingers around it; he's gentle, as he always is with her, and his hand lingers a moment too long. He seems to realize what he's doing, hastily withdrawing it and glancing away. "It's a reminder." He raises his eyes skywards, seems to search for the right words. "It's helps us remember who we are. Why we do what we do. The duty that can't be forsworn, and all that."

Looking at it, she can't help being surprised that such a small thing can mean so much. "You have one of these," she suddenly remarks, and as she says it, she knows it's true. "It was - You never took it off."

He was so proud - is so proud - of being a Warden. He used to stand straighter when she asked him questions about the order, tell stories he'd obviously memorized, his eyes bright and something almost reverential in it. He seemed so... young, she remembers. But those images are brief, fleeting things, and when she tries to grab the memories, examine them further, they're gone.

He still does. Yet his smile is sad when he answers, "What I said before... Being a Warden is an honour. But it's a double-edged sword. If I'd known what it meant..." He laughs, exasperated and bitter. "Sod it, I'd probably have sprinted to my Joining anyway. I get it, you know." The sadness is still there, but now there's something wry in it. "Being part of something bigger. A chance to make a difference, and to be a Grey Warden... There's no feeling better than that."

She remembers clashing with him in the training yard; he wasn't in her position - he didn't understand, and he couldn't. Some part of her thought that it must be much easier, living without riches and expectations, without a family name hanging over your head. Except perhaps...

"You think, 'oh, look at that, I'm finally worth something,'" he continues. "You're more than you were, and no-one knows your name. Great, isn't it?"

Finally - finally - he looks at her. The way he does it is a physical, heavy thing, almost painful and leaving her a little breathless. "It is," she admits, at last, because everything he's said is true.

"It's just... it's never that simple." He hesitates, about to say something, before he thinks better of it; the raw honesty she saw before is gone. "Come on. I'd recommend putting that on, then... well." He pauses. "See, we're early. Or, well, late. This happened earlier before, but we're late to Ostagar. The king must have had to hold up the meeting."

"For us?" she asks in confusion, again wondering what could have rendered them so important. 

"Not just us," he reminds her. "He'll have to plan against Loghain. Though at the rate the darkspawn will be advancing, I hope he doesn't take too long about it. We should really head to the main camp. I'll update the rest of the Wardens on your progress."

She nods, but the thought is odd to her; she almost misses when there was just one Warden, when her recruitment shared between the two of them and sometimes Duncan - when such things were private. She hastily slips the pendant over her head as they begin to walk. "What does it mean?" she asks.

"Huh?"

"Being a Warden. What does it really mean?"

He finally seems to focus, but something is clouding his eyes. "It means... Well, it means sacrifice. That part of the vow certainly applies. You never know how much you have to lose" - he hesitates, as if debating with himself - "until you do." He shakes his head. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. You're right; becoming a Warden was your choice, and you knew the risks." He pauses. "I just... wish there weren't so many risks. If you know what I mean."

"I think so," is her hesitant reply.

He laughs. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You were, well, you were always brave."

"I think you mean 'stupid,'" Patience corrects him.

"Brave," he re-corrects her. A moment passes. "Alright, maybe a little... bull-headed." He grins. "I remember this time you went for a shriek, and you ended up missing it and barreling straight into this cart of vegetables..."

"I'll have you know that it was very, very fast," she reminds him without thinking, wearing a similar grin, "and I paid for those afterwards."

They both freeze.

He stares at her. "I suppose I should be getting used to this by now," he says in a quiet voice.

She shrugs. "I still have no idea what to make of it, and it's my head. I don't expect it's easy."

His cheer seems to return, and he emulates her shrug. "It's much better than the alternative."

"Which is?"

He gives her a weak mockery of a smile. "We'd best get to camp."

She has little choice but to follow him.


	15. Beholder

_She's really something, isn't she? Sometimes she does something stupid, like laugh at one of my jokes, or kiss me, or just_ exist, _and I can't get over how lucky I am._

* * *

"The newest one!" she hears Grigor cry.

She tenses, unsure what to do next as every head in the camp turns, but decides to smile. It feels far too much like gritting her teeth.  
  
"Only the one?" the Warden asks Alistair, lowering his voice.  
  
Alistair nods. "Just Patience."  
  
"A shame," Grigor replies. His face changes, and he grins with crooked teeth before calling, "A drink!"  
  
Patience looks at Alistair in confusion and more than a little panic. His only response is to give her a long-suffering smile, a hand running sheepishly through his hair, and tell her, "It's... kind of a tradition. You don't have to drink yourself - it's horrible, anyway, it's the watered-down stuff - but it's something we always used to... We always do."  
  
"I see."  
  
She stands, watching the Wardens scrabble in their packs for tankards; she notices water-skins that probably haven't seen water in a long time being passed around; she sees Grigor break into a run towards the campfire and the ale; and, oddest of all, she feels a soft touch at her wrist. She tries not to jump when Alistair says, his voice only for her ears, "I meant to thank you. For... for Wynne, and when I had to speak to the king. I know you're not exactly touchy-feely, so... thanks for that. And thanks for not asking. I promise I'll explain it all tomorrow."  
  
"Please do. I'm sick of wondering. It isn't anything too awful, is it?"  
  
His huff of a laugh can barely be heard over the loud, enthusiastic conversation. "Depends on your definition of 'awful'. But no, it's nothing too bad. At least, it wasn't last time. I just... need some time."  
  
"I suppose I can do that."  
  
Another barely-there laugh. "Patience the impatient. Oh, I never got over that."  
  
"Believe me, I've heard it all before. From Father, from Fergus, and I'm sure from you."  
  
"Plenty of times." The smile in his voice is sincere, not the half-broken thing he's been showing her far too many times recently.  
  
"You never let me live down the vegetable cart, either," she tells him, suddenly knowing it's true; without saying anything more, she moves her hand to lace her fingers with his. His hand is warm, and at first she feels no grip in return; perhaps she's surprised him too much. Perhaps she's overstepped her bounds, and this is more than something simple friends do. Half of her wants to reclaim her hand, that simple action seeming suddenly far too rash, but then...  
  
She's sure he never meant her to hear his small intake of breath. She does anyway. He pretends it hasn't happened, doing nothing but replying, "I'm sorry. I'm a weak man." She feels his hand tighten around hers. "However did you put up with me?"  
  
She thinks of his steady, reassuring presence at her side, his often utterly inappropriate sarcasm and his oddly matter-of-fact approach to terrifying situations. "Oh, I'm sure you aren't that bad."  
  
This feeling - the lack of space, the points of contact between them - is somehow natural, comes without effort; she's sure there must be precedent for it. No-one has ever touched her; her family, yes, sometimes, but never like this. If anyone else had to, it was done tentatively, with miles' worth of rank between them. Even Rory went easy on her when they were sparring. (Someday, she is determined she'll get a real fight out of Alistair. There's absolutely no chance she'll win, but it will certainly be something to see - and maybe the best training of her life. Andraste, she'll fight everyone in this damn camp if it will let her stand toe-to-toe with even the weakest of them.) She's sick of being touched like she's marble. There is a certain honesty in the way Alistair is with her: he treats her like she's human, not just "the Cousland daughter", oversteps bounds and reassures like he's seeing a friend rather than a noble. His carefulness is of a different kind.  
  
It makes sense, when she considers it. He met a half-nameless Warden with a dead family, survival long having been prioritized over airs and graces. He met Patience long before he ever met Cousland.

He turns his head to give her the wide, genuine smile she heard before in its entirety. "Maker, sometimes it scares me how much I - " The sentence goes uncompleted, the shadow of before settling behind his eyes again, and then he finishes, "How much I've missed this."  
  
Kean and Grigor break out into a loud song about "the buxom beauties of Antiva," and she listens absentmindedly to a couple of verses before she catches Alistair humming along. He doesn't seem aware he's doing it. When she raises questioning brows at him, he simply shrugs. "You pick it up. There's... there's a lot of repetition. Those two are very keen on..." He makes an aborted gesture towards his chest. "Um."  
  
Patience is caught between stifling a laugh and glancing down at her chest, suddenly feeling - in yet another sense of the phrase - woefully inadequate. "Ah. I see."  
  
She looks up to see Alistair's eyes fixed firmly on the campfire and the proceedings going on around it, a blush painting his cheeks. He has freckles, she notices. Not many; they aren't immediately obvious, and the only reasons she's aware of them are his flushedness and the fact that she's spent far too long studying his face. She, too, takes an especial interest in the campfire, ignoring the heat in her own face. She realizes belatedly that he probably followed her gaze, and is caught between amusement and mortification.  
  
The Wardens - so sombre before - have brightened considerably with the promise of alcohol. Kean and Grigor are far from the only ones singing, and the camp seems far too lively for the lateness of the hour. Then again, she thinks as she checks the position of the sun in the sky, it isn't actually that late - perhaps she's simply tired. She half-yawns before realizing she's done it. The motion stirs up an echo of her previous coughs, ready to rise in her throat and wrack her again. Despite the celebrations going on around her, she has little desire to eat, drink and be merry.  
  
She needs to sleep. But first...  
  
"I've missed it too," she tells him. "Having a friend, I mean. It's been rather a long time." Rory is still back at the castle; she rarely used to talk to any of the other men. The closest she's come to making a friend here has been Kean. It's been odd to have someone who's seen her at her worst, without her rank and without her dignity, and yet still seems to care for her. "Or... I've found it. It isn't as if I had anything to miss, before." She sighs. "Thank you."  
  
She feels his surprise, even without looking at him. "You don't have to thank me."  
  
"I think I do," she says, and leaves it at that. "I think I'd like to get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning?"  
  
He nods. "I'll just... stay here for a while. Say hello to everyone."  
  
"Right."  
  
She walks away from him then, wending her way back to their odd little camp on the outskirts.

* * *

He's been putting this off for far too long. Part of him has wanted to see them all, to make sure they're real, for a long time; the other part made sure to set up camp somewhere else, to allow himself time.  
  
It was so much easier when it was just a stop on a journey, when he was distracted by Patience and the Joining. When he was, if he's honest with himself, still blinded by the novelty of it all: the Wardens, alive; Duncan, alive; all of them, alive. He didn't have to think too much, and he could just settle into the old rhythms, pretend nothing had changed. Now it's just him and he's truly here...  
  
He's afraid, he admits. He's been afraid since they began the journey to Ostagar. What if his memories were wrong? What if none of them are what he remembered? What if he's idealized everything? It's been more than a year, and what if... Shut up, he thinks furiously. Man up and see. It can't be that bad. Everything so far - except for that disastrous conversation with Cailan - has gone better than he feared. Maybe this will, too. It just all seems too good to be true, like if he'll blink and it'll disappear.  
  
Yeah, right. Like he's ever been that lucky.  
  
He makes his way to the fire and does his best to pretend his legs are steady. He sits down heavily, watches everyone drink, a few dance, the serious ones sitting in corners and sharpening swords or frowning at books. He was one of them, once. Once, this wouldn't have been so odd.  
  
"You alright?"  
  
He jumps, looking at Kean and answering, "I'm fine. Really, I'm... fine."  
  
Kean raises an eyebrow. "Could've fooled me. You look like you've seen a ghost."  
  
He almost smiles at that - humourless as it would be - because he has. He is, he's seeing several - they're walking, talking, drinking, laughing, and not a single one of them walked away from Ostagar alive. He fights the urge to cry, or to punch something, or to tell them all to just go home. A lot of them look much younger than he noticed at the time. It's such a weight on his chest that he's almost tempted to get drunk with the others, but he might end up saying something stupid to Patience. Something true. He's not sure either of them could take that right now.  
  
"I'm just tired," he says. He is - it's deep in his bones, something old and unhappy. He's not the same man they knew.  
  
"Think we all are," Kean answers with a smile. There's a pause,. "So, you and the lady..." Kean trails off, waiting for the blanks to be filled. Andraste's sword, is everyone seeing it but Patience?  
  
After Fergus, this is almost easy. "Patience and I  _what?_ " Alistair responds sharply.

"Y'know, I saw you holding her hand," Kean says, and it's far too casual not to matter.  
  
"We're not... It's not what you think. We've been friends for a long time - we met before she was recruited." That's partly a lie, but the "friends for a long time"? There's a weird amount of truth in that. For him, at least.  
  
 _"Right."_  There's far too much sarcasm in that answer for Alistair's liking.  
  
"What?" Alistair snaps, sick of playing games.  
  
"What?" Kean responds innocently.  
  
"What exactly are you saying?"  
  
"What do you think I'm saying?" Kean takes a swig of ale. "I mean, I was considering asking her if she'd like to find a nice tent somewhere, but I think I've lost that one already."  
  
Alistair tries to parse the man's words, but has trouble. "Huh?"  
  
Kean just gives him a sardonic look, waiting for him to figure it out. No epiphanies suddenly happen; he just looks back, confused.  
  
Kean snorts. "She's sweet. And you're a fuckin' idiot. No wonder you're still a virgin."  
  
Alistair grits his teeth and very determinedly doesn't answer that, keeping his eyes on the fire. What he doesn't say must be loud, though.  
  
 _"Oh."_  Kean sounds surprised enough that Alistair's almost offended. "When did that happen, Highever?"  
  
No, but what else is he meant to say? He shrugs eloquently.  
  
Kean nags him for information, refusing to give up or shut up, and Alistair feels something fall into place: this he knows. The banter, the rhythm, the way they can all be so bloody annoying - this is exactly what he remembered. He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He settles into the part he hasn't had to play for a long time, being the awkward, blushing junior recruit. It's... nice, actually. Less complicated.  
  
The Wardens, he knows as he turns ever more scarlet and looks longingly at the ale, are everything he remembered. Grigor at some point sits next to them, hears their conversation, and claps Alistair on the back with a loud, "At last!"  
  
Once again, the embarrassment of it all makes him want to burrow a hole in the ground and disappear. He never thought he'd miss the feeling. His face in his hands, he puts up a good fight, but he knows they'll get something out of him eventually.  
  
They do. He refuses to give them a name, but he gives them this: brunette, deceptively strong, smart as a whip. And that's the end of it.

* * *

Patience's dreams are odd, cryptic fragments.  
  
Fingertips tracing over her skin. The taste of blood. A low, Antivan-accented voice saying something that makes her laugh, a blush on her cheeks. A flash of red hair and a different, softer accent. Blood on her face, her hands, and someone begging her to  _be alright, please, Patience, I can't do this without you..._  Her legs aching from walking for miles. Strong, careful fingers bandaging a wound, and a kiss on her forehead; the way she returns the favour, stitching and wrapping, and a tired laugh beside her. ( _We're quite the pair, aren't we?_ ) Yellow-gold eyes. Her home burning.  
  
It changes, somewhere along the way, to something clearer and far worse - once again, she sees the dragon, and a man she knows, _needs_  - he runs...  
  
It ends in fire and blood and her screams. It always does.

* * *

She wakes in tears. She's gasping for breath, reaching for - something, she can't remember...  
  
The memory's gone. The nightmare, too has gone, the images having long deserted her, and she's crying from frustration as much as the emptiness in her chest. Perhaps if she knew what this was, if she understood, she could stop it,  _do_  something, but she's afraid, too. It must be something terrible. What if knowing solves nothing, just makes her more upset?  
  
She remembers the smell of smoke, and she tries to calm her breathing, needing to find... someone, something...  
  
"Patience?" she hears.  
  
She climbs to her feet, thankful that she hadn't bothered to undress before she collapsed onto her bedroll, and follows his voice as if by instinct. In the post-nightmare haze, she needs something to hold onto: tears are still running down her cheeks, and she's more than slightly dizzy. She wonders if it's another side-effect of the Joining, but decides that no, it probably isn't. The darkspawn blood never made her feel like this.  
  
Alistair is sitting next to the fire, but he looks up in concern as he hears her footsteps. "I came back and you were screaming. I'm guessing the nightmares again, right?"  
  
She nods, slumping to sit next to him, and stares at her knees. She isn't sure she's up to talking; she'd rather just listen to his voice, focus on what's real. Besides, she's embarrassed to look at him. She hates anyone seeing her like this: weak, a sobbing little girl. Even him.  
  
"If it helps, it's a normal part of being a Warden. Fun, isn't it?"  
  
"No," she says, still attempting to recover her wits. She grimaces at the way her voice betrays her, small and unsteady, and the way tears are still falling.  
  
"Mm. Thanks for humouring me there."  
  
"No, I mean..." She finally meets his eye, still struggling to breathe properly. "We've had this conversation before, I remember, and this was - this wasn't the Archdemon." When he frowns, curiosity mixed with worry, she continues, "This was... the other kind." There are many things she would rather talk about; there are many things she would rather do. It pains her to break in front of him, but she doubts she has a choice. She attempts to regain her composure before she speaks, but makes little progress. "Do you remember in the castle, when you found me like... like this?"  
  
He nods. "Is this the same thing?"  
  
"I had these before I Joined. It... Alistair, what have I lost?" She hates herself for the fact it's a plea.

"I wish I knew." He exhales, and it sounds like a weight is heavy upon his chest. "Look..." He cuts himself off, staring down at his hands in his uncertainty.  
  
"Have I done something?" she manages. "Is there... Do I deserve this?" The question should probably bother her more, but she's relieved at a possible answer. Maybe that's what it is. Maybe it's an odd kind of retribution.  
  
 _"No,"_ he insists, and takes her hand. His eyes are fierce, and she sees an odd sort of conviction in them. He's terrifyingly certain about this. "You're the bravest woman I've ever known, and this is not fair."  
  
"Are you sure?" she asks tentatively.  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
He doesn't seem like he'd be a particularly good liar, so she relaxes, looks back at her knees.  
  
"I figured I'd make tea," he says after a moment, brisk, as if he's determined to change the subject. "I can spare the water, after all. Want a cup?"  
  
She's distinctly surprised to find that she does. "Yes," she replies, though it's more of a mumble directed at her lap.  
  
He hears her anyway. "Good." He heads over to his pack, rifling through it in search of the relevant ingredients.  
  
She realizes that she's watching him, as she all too often does. This feels... familiar. Warm, somehow. "Was this," she sniffles, unable to help herself, "was this something we did a lot?"  
  
"Hm?" He pauses in his search. "Oh. It was. I'd make you tea after the nightmares pretty often. It seemed to help. Of course, those were different nightmares."  
  
And that draws her attention, something tickling at the back of her mind. "I didn't have the dreams before?"  
  
"No, just the standard Warden nightmares." He empties a water-skin into the pot above the fire, a few herbs following it. "To be honest, I just brushed the first few off as the fact you'd been through a lot. Now I'm starting to wonder if..."  
  
"It's related to the Blight repeating?" she cuts in. "I am, too."  
  
They stare at each other for a moment, and then he breaks the tension, smiling at her and saying, "See? This is why we're friends. Two peas in a tainted, nightmare-haunted pod. Well, other than the whole noble and commoner thing."  
  
She contemplates that for a moment. "Was that ever a problem?"  
  
"What, the fact I was just some ex-stable boy and you actually knew what a fish knife was?" It's dry. He's amused, and that relieves her.  
  
"Er." She has no idea how to reply. Sometime during this this conversation she has stopped crying, though she has no idea when. "Yes. That."

He shakes his head, but it's a slow, fond thing. "I only found out who you were in Redcliffe, and the one time I tried to curtsy, you gave me the scariest glare I'd ever seen. So no, not much of a problem."  
  
She coughs awkwardly. "It... should have been a bow, actually. You're not a woman."  
  
He laughs. "I  _know_ , Patience." He turns from the fire, returning to his pack to extract a mug. "I've had to cower in front of the Revered Mother enough times."  
  
She hastily stands on legs that have become reasonably steady, retrieving her pack and then a mug of her own. "Then again," she attempts, "I'm not sure I should be surprised. This is a man who's threatened to wear a dress."  
  
 _"Offered,"_  he corrects her as she joins him. "Only for you, though." He catches sight of her proffered mug. "And I was also going to do that for you, but thanks." He takes it from her, handing it back to her filled with the fragrant liquid she remembers from the castle. She sniffs it, enjoying the scent she was too bleary to register last time, and he says, "Blame Morrigan for the recipe."  
  
She wants to ask him about the witch - the woman who's currently just an abrasive manner, a name and half-recalled quarrels to her - but senses it isn't the time. Instead she sips the tea, burning her tongue a little but not entirely minding. It's real, at least, a different kind of pain from the bone-deep ache of her nightmares.  
  
He's scowling, and at her raised eyebrow, he looks a little sheepish. "Sorry. I just... Talking about her always seems to end in an argument, doesn't it?"  
  
"So don't," she replies simply.  
  
He looks relieved. Grabbing his own tea, he heads back to their spot beside the fire, and she trails after him. "Sooo," he begins. "Kean."  
  
She takes her previous seat beside him. "What about him?"  
  
"He seems to have taken a liking to you."  
  
"Oh." She jumps as the meaning of his words hits her. " _Oh_. A... a liking?  _Why?_ "  
  
"Well, all the obvious reasons." He smiles at her; it seems a little melancholy, and she wonders why.  
  
"There are plenty of good-looking women in the army," she protests, "and I'm sure they'd all be a little less..." She gestures to herself, nearly spilling the tea in her haste, and puts it down for a moment.  
  
"A little less  _what?_ " he asks pointedly, regarding her over the top of his mug.  
  
"I'm..." She sighs. "I'm snappish, and I'm - I'm shy, even though I don't want to be, and... Alistair, none of them would dance with me."  
  
"Patience - "

"No. No, I am." She struggles to explain, to make herself sound less pathetic - or perhaps more, she isn't entirely sure; the words are spilling out and she has little semblance of control over them. "When I'd attend dances, none of the nobles' sons would even glance at me. The few that did - I was wearing so much makeup I couldn't recognize myself, and lying to everyone in the room. I tried very hard to pretend I was something worth admiring." She's angry at how shaky her voice is. She shouldn't be upset over this. She shouldn't. She's a Warden now - it's unlikely she'll ever have to attend another dance like that again, and she doesn't need preening nobles slobbering over her, but... she wishes someone, anyone had tried. She wishes someone would just look at her the way she wants them to, without trying to correct her in some way. "I thought I could try, at least, even though I'm not much to look at, but they were all just... upholding etiquette. Being polite. I could see it in their eyes."  
  
 _"Patience,_ " he says, insistent. She finally forces herself to look at him. "They were idiots."  
  
"I don't think they were," she admits quietly.  
  
He laughs, and for a moment she's angry. Of course he'd laugh at her after she's done this. She's bared too much of herself, he's found something that he doesn't like, and now he'll humiliate her. She shouldn't be surprised; part of her has been waiting for this.  
  
Then he says, "Anyone in their right mind would dance with you. You're only snappish when someone's royally pissed you off, you're graceful enough not to step on anyone's toes, and there's also the fact that you're beautiful." His eyes shift to his tea, and he shrugs. "At least, I've always thought so."  
  
She can do nothing but stare at him like a fool. Words desert her, until she manages, "Beautiful?"  
  
He smiles at her; it's brief, awkward, but there. "What, you haven't noticed?"  
  
The casual kindness of it, the way he calls her that like it's a plain, simple fact, does something to her; she draws in a breath at what she  _wants_ , so sharp and sudden that it shocks her.  
  
 _You're not exactly touchy-feely._  
  
Not usually, no - but she needs, so badly it's a physical tug, to touch him. His brow creases at her silence. She sees the long, dark lines of his lashes, the hint of colour in his cheeks. He is so  _close_. Everything in her wants him closer still - wants to taste his bemused smile, to feel his arms around her. The gap between them is small, not much to close. She wonders what he would do if she leaned forward just slightly, if she...  
  
"Patience?"  
  
No. The spell is broken; the stupid impulse is a low hum rather than the roar it was. "Alistair?" she counters.  
  
"You look a bit odd. Are you alright?"  
  
Somehow, she musters a smile. "I am," she says, and finds that she means it.  
  
"I didn't know that, by the way," he says.  
  
"Know what?" She drinks a mouthful of tea; it warms her from her mouth to her toes. The empty ache in her chest is nearly gone, replaced by a new, unfamiliar one - the one that surfaces when Alistair touches her, when he smiles; when he does foolish things like call her beautiful.  
  
"The thing about the dances. You never told me that before. I meant what I said, though - I'd dance with you any day."  
  
Then why haven't you? she wants to ask. Why didn't you ever want me?  
  
She swallows the questions down with the tea, bidding him goodnight instead. When she retires to her tent, her sleep is blessedly dreamless.


	16. Metanoia

He finds he's somewhere that has yellow, shifting skies. He’s standing in a clearing, but the woods around him are made of trees that are barely solid, hazy and shadowy in the light. Oh. He doesn’t even have to ask where he is.

Someone clears their throat behind him. He turns so fast he nearly trips, coughing to hide his embarrassment. “Urthemiel.”

“ _Warden,_ ” the god says in return, with an incline of his head. He is sitting on a simple wooden chair, with a table next to him. On it is a goblet of something. “ _I apologize for my...”_ He seems to stop and search for the words. _“...previous behaviour. It seemed to distress you.”_

 _Seemed to - ?_ Wow. That’s quite an understatement. Alistair is reluctant to piss off an Old God any more than he has to, especially after that little display, so instead of starting an argument, he asks, “Was it real, that... that scene with Patience, or was it just something you cooked up?” He’s still remembering her sobs, how... broken she seemed, and how he could do exactly nothing to help her. It freezes his blood, makes him want to punch something or, well, cry himself.

Urthemiel sighs, looking like he’s regretting this whole business. Maybe he is. He makes a gesture – just a wave of his hand – and an identical chair appears opposite him. “ _Sit,”_ he says. When Alistair (who has never, as far as he recalls, been a mabari) makes no move to do so, he reluctantly adds, “ _Please.”_

Alistair does, suspecting he’s not going to like whatever Urthemiel says next.

“ _It was real. She was indeed in that state after your death_.” He is looking at the ground rather than at Alistair.

Alistair slumps in his chair. He never thought... He wanted so badly for her to be happy. He promised her he’d never hurt her, and somehow he keeps managing to. "Is there - is there some way I could go back?" This Patience won't care so much if he leaves. And as long as they can sort out the whole Loghain thing, maybe...

" _I'm afraid not_ ," Urthemiel says. " _And it was real - for a given definition of the word. It never happened."_

 _"What?!"_ Alistair knows it wouldn't be wise to hit an Old God, and he's careful to keep that in mind as his fists clench. "You just made it up to, to  _torment_  me?"

Urthemiel shook his head. " _It did happen. But it was undone with your resurrection. It never happened, for you never died_."

"Then how can we remember it?"

"You _didn't. I gifted you the memory."_

"Well, thanks for that."

" _It was but a small task. Are you prepared for the meeting with the king?"_

Alistair shifts uncomfortably. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be." He clears his throat. "Look, there's - have you done something to Patience?"

Urthemiel frowns, confused. " _Why would I..._  do  _anything to her_?" He says it like it's an insane suggestion; like just the thought's beneath him.

"She's been getting nightmares. Ones that are out of the ordinary, I mean. We thought that it might be connected to the Blight reversal, but..."

Urthemiel shrugs. It's a weirdly awkward, graceless movement for the god. " _Perhaps it is. It is not, however, my doing."_

"But this entire" - Alistair gestures wildly at the space around them - " _thing_ is your doing! How can you not..." He hesitates, because he  _gets_  it now, and oh Maker, that's just  _great,_ that's  _just_ what he needed. "You don't know any more than I do, do you?"

" _Yes,"_   Urthemiel answers confidently, and Alistair feels more than a little offended. " _Even so, there are some variables I had not accounted for. I had not supposed that she would remember so much of you_. _And her dreams may be connected to this, but they are not connected to_ me."

 "Then what  _are_ they connected to?"

Urthemiel looks him in the eye, his chin tilted defiantly. " _I'm uncertain."_

Alistair sighs. Why is he not surprised? "Of course you are."

_"Even so, it is irrelevant. What is relevant is what will happen tomorrow."_

"What, the battle?"

" _Yes. It is the turning point, and it is what forces you to eventually kill me."_

"What - what are you saying?"

Urthemiel grins, and suddenly Alistair can see past his ethereal beauty, can see the great, frightening dragon in him. " _Make your amends. You will see."_

And then Alistair wakes up, having to fight the urge to throttle an ex-Archdemon.

* * *

He can't sleep after that. Hardly unusual for a Warden, but the encounter with Urthemiel hasn't helped. Part of him worries that if he sleeps, he'll be dragged back to the Old God's own little slice of the Fade. The other part of him's afraid about what tomorrow might bring. He sits by the fire, rolling a pebble under his foot and watching the stars.

"Alistair," someone says behind him. Unfortunately, he knows exactly who that someone is even before he turns around.

"Your Majesty," he replies. It's a little too bitter for his taste, and it comes out as more of a sigh.

There's a sigh in response, the scraping sound of loose stones and earth being moved, and then the king of Ferelden is sitting next to him, looking at the stars. The man looks a lot smaller without the armour. A lot more... human. They sit there, silent, and Alistair waits for him to say something.  _Anything._

"About tomorrow," Cailan starts, and Alistair looks up from scanning the ground, waiting. "Please tell me you have evidence for your claims."

"Isn't what happened with Howe enough? You know I'm right about the future." Unable to help it, he mutters, "Maker knows I don't want to be."

"I hope it will be." Cailan sighs, and the silence falls between them again for a couple of minutes - a couple of minutes too long. Why can't Cailan just leave him alone? He has to wonder.

After a while, Cailan says, "I wish I'd... done more. I wish I'd known more."

Ah, It's guilt, then. Well, that's nothing new. Alistair's used to being a cause of guilt: an old shame, a burden, a bastard. That's easy enough to deal with. "Yes, well." He doesn't say anything more, and he doesn't feel he needs to. The silence is condemnation enough, and he finds a petty kind of satisfaction in that.

Cailan's jaw sets, but he looks away. At the rest of the fortress, the stone towers against the dark sky and the distant glow of the other Wardens' campfire. At the other tent out here. He pauses.  _Oh no._ There are some thing's Alistair really, really doesn't want to talk about, especially not to Cailan. Patience is one of them. Cailan asks, "Does she know who you are?"

Something about the question - the phrasing of it, or the presumption, honestly, he doesn't know - sets his teeth on edge. As if Cailan knows himself. "Who my father is, you mean?"

"if you'd prefer that, yes."

"No." Alistair grits his teeth.  _And I'd prefer it if she never had to._ "No, she doesn't."

"Do you plan to tell her?"

Alistair exhales, refusing to look at Cailan. He focuses on the campfire instead. It's burning low, nearly down to embers. Maybe there's some odd sort of symbolism in that. Not that he really considers it. "It'll come up at some point. It's not like I have any choice, is it?"

As he expected, Cailan doesn't answer. Instead he shifts slightly, bringing his knees up, putting an arm round them. He runs a hand through his (stupid, impractical) long hair. It's beginning to look a little worse for wear - it's obviously been a long day, and his braids have come out. It's frazzled round the edges. "And have you told her about the other matter?"

Alistair frowns. "What other matter?"

Cailan... well, Cailan  _smirks_ at him. That's almost more unsettling than their conversation about the succession and the Landsmeet. "No matter what happened at the Landsmeet - well, you look at her like she should have been your queen."

Alistair can feel his face heating. He hates Cailan for it, and he hates himself, too. "Why does everyone keep  _saying- ?_  She's my  _friend_. And it's not as if you care, anyway."

Cailan's smile falls, then he recovers it, as if he's used to putting on a front. He probably is. "Your friend. Have you told her that?"

"What are you - ?"

"I know you think I'm a fool. You're probably right. But when you look at her, she's looking back."

He can't mean - no. "I don't know what you're... She would have said something."

"The way you have?"

Alistair can't help it: he feels guilty, suddenly, for not telling her the truth. It wells up inside of him, takes hold and chokes him. No. He pushes it down. He's never - He'd  _know._ He used to be able to read her so well: the way she spoke, the way she moved, the look in her eyes, the feel of her. It's harder these days, but even so, he'd know. And if they're all wrong and he's stupid enough to blurt it all out, well, she's hurt and he's lost the one damn thing that matters most to him. It's unfair to expect what they had. It's unfair to put that on her shoulders. "It's not the right time. And it is  _none_ of your business."

"That's true," Cailan concedes, tipping his head. "And it isn't the reason I'm here."

"Then what is?" Alistair snaps, any kind of politeness or distance long gone. He's sick of it - of having it all rubbed in his face, this dead man and this walking reminder of the father who didn't want him. He's being petty, he knows, but it's not like he has any choice over anything else here, so he chooses to be petty. He chooses to make Cailan feel even a fraction of his discomfort.

"In all honesty..." Cailan hesitates. "I doubt there will be the time or place to say this tomorrow, so I will now. If things go awry in the battle... I'm glad to have met you. Truly."

It blindsides him a little. It's something so few people have said to him, and to hear it from the king is... it's far more than he expected. He's unsure what to say, and while he's trying to find his words, Cailan is standing and carefully dusting himself off.

He's taken several steps before Alistair manages to speak. "Cailan?"

He looks over his shoulder.

"Try not to get yourself killed."

Cailan grins, and for a worrying moment Alistair can see the family resemblance. Then the king is slipping back into the darkness, surprisingly quietly for a man with Ferelden on his shoulders. 

That just leaves Alistair, who stares at the dying fire, feeling that his thoughts are truly underwhelming company.

* * *

 Patience is woken by birds singing and for once, not the call of her fellow Warden. The silence is odd to her. She dresses, climbing carefully out of her tent.

He's sitting by the dead fire; he has a hand over his mouth, his face thoughtful but not necessarily happy, and the skin under his eyes is dark. Evidently he's slept far from well. It's probably the upcoming battle looming over them - or, she thinks, panic rising in her, perhaps it's last night. She hopes it isn't. 

He called her  _beautiful._ He called her beautiful, and her heart sang. Maybe her face gave that away. Perhaps he was scared off by some small thing in the way she looked at him, some little clue that told him the truth.

 Or maybe not. He looks up, giving her a smile. Brittle, tired and false, but a smile nonetheless. "There wasn't anything pressing yet, so I thought I'd let you sleep. You seemed like you needed it."

A simple, kind thing that makes her remember why she's such a mess. He does things like this and she feels it in her chest. "Oh. Thank you. I think." She takes a seat opposite him. "Is there any particular reason why you're staring at some ashes?"

"It's an old Chantry exercise. Not very well known, you probably haven't heard of it..."

His smile gives him away, and she  _harrumphs._ "I'm sure."

He shrugs. "Well, it's not as if you'd know. I'm, er, I'm just... thinking." He exhales very quietly, and then says, "The meeting with the king is in a few hours. We'll be called, I think."

Patience nods, still half-asleep, allowing the morning to settle into her bones.

Those hours pass faster than she expected. She's sharpening her daggers carefully, her armour freshly donned and her hair still wet from the river, braided past her shoulders. Smith is dozing by her side, obviously enjoying the sun. She's glad he's at her side again, but she knows enough by now to let him wander as he wishes - he always finds his way back to her. He's loyal that way, an honest mabari. He seems to sense when she needs him most. 

Alistair has been reserved - certainly not unkind, but seemingly trapped in his thoughts. He's said little, and that worries her. She will ask, she has decided, but not yet. She wonders if it's what he was hesitant to tell her yesterday.

She tests the sharpness of Thorn - one of her mother's old blades, passed down to her a year ago - and hisses when she finds that it is indeed sharp enough. This needed doing, and she's a Warden now. She can't afford to have blunt weapons. Not now, and not ever.

"Wardens."

That low, resonant voice tells her who it is even before she looks up. Duncan watches them for a moment, his arms crossed and his eyes sharp, then he says, "The meeting is about to begin."

They stand at the same time, and Alistair looks at her in amusement when he notices. She's getting too used to him: to being around him, to working with him. It's habit-forming. That amusement is soon replaced by nervousness.

There's been an atmosphere hanging over the camp: over the Wardens, the rest of the army, even their small sanctuary. The air is solid with it. It feels like when they were waiting for Howe, but almost worse - it's an indrawn breath, the silence before the shout. It makes her afraid. Alistair said she survives this, but now... now she's uncertain - what if...?

She shakes her head minutely, following Duncan. Alistair glances at her with evident curiosity, but she doesn't explain. Now isn't the time. There might never be a time. 

They're led through the fortress - a few of the Wardens nod at them in mutual acknowledgement, unspeaking and grim - and arrive at a large table. Around it are a mage, the king, and... Loghain Mac Tir. Ferelden's greatest general. She has seen him on rare occasions, but never spoken to him. She grew up hearing the stories, as everyone else does, and to her he has always been a legend rather than a man. It is difficult to speak to a story. He is - or at least, she believed he was - a hero. And according to Alistair, the man who slaughtered the Grey Wardens. She thinks of Grigor, of Kean, of the men standing next to her. She thinks of a campfire, drinks, songs and stories, and feels sick. Once again she wishes she didn't believe Alistair.

Cailan looks up, a smile breaking across his face as he sees them. His eyes betray him, however: Patience sees the same anticipation, the same fear, she saw in the Wardens and the army. He is standing next to the man who killed him, indirect as it was. "Ah. Wardens."

Duncan bows. She and Alistair follow suit. "Your Majesty," Duncan says.

Loghain's eyes are cold, and his brow is creased even more than usual as he looks at him. "Is there a reason why they're here?"

Cailan looks at him, playing innocence, smiling. "Surely we need the Warden-Commander for a discussion of strategy?" 

Loghain refuses to take the bait. "No. The others." His eyes land on Alistair, and something odd crosses his face. It's there and gone in a moment, but it scares Patience.

She realizes after a moment too long that she's stepped closer to Alistair. He looks at her worriedly, and she hears him swallow. As if he saw it too. As if there's a reason for it, as if there's something else...

Cailan smiles broadly at Loghain and says, "Why, to help prove your treason, of course."

There is a moment of shocked silence. Even Loghain's brows raise. To his credit, he shows no sign of panic, only anger. "Treason? Such lies are to be expected from the Wardens. Do not let your worship of them blind you to - "

Cailan still seems strangely cheerful. "And here's the bluster. Just as I expected." He looks at Alistair. "Are you certain?"

Patience remembers standing in front of Howe, asking Alistair the same question. She remembers her heart in her throat and the look in his eyes. The look that's there now. He nods.

It all happens so quickly.

Cailan reaches for his sword, but Loghain has already drawn his sword and is advancing, his face furious -

Loghain falls. Blood spurts from his neck, and he chokes, gasping, dropping to his knees. His sword clatters to the ground, his stiffening fingers grasping for it...

Patience remembers Howe. She remembers the taste of blood, the smell of it clogging her nostrils. She closes her eyes, not wanting to watch the rest. She has seen more than enough.

She feels something - a touch on her hand, a brush and then more certain. She opens her eyes, and Alistair's eyes are grim, on the unfolding scene, but his fingers are threaded through hers.

Duncan looks down at Loghain, his bloody dagger still in his hand, and shakes his head. "A shame."

Loghain's mouth is open, still trying to speak, when the life leaves his eyes. It is not a sight Patience will soon forget.

Cailan sheathes his sword, sighing. "Well, that was unpleasant." It's such an understatement, almost sarcastic. It's the kind of thing Alistair would say. Cailan looks around at the shocked mage, the Chantry mother, and told them, "Plans were found in his tent. As you know, the original plan was for me to be on the front lines. He wanted his army to desert us. A massacre, but he would claim regency. These Wardens found those plans, and alerted me to their existence." He looks at them. "Isn't that right?"

Alistair struggles for words for barely a moment. If you didn't know him well, it would be unnoticeable. "Yes. Yes, that's right, your Majesty."

Patience nods. She's distracted by the fact that he has stepped away from her slightly, reclaimed his hand. She misses the feeling of it.

The mage and the mother are understandably reluctant to argue with a king. They simply watch, waiting.

"We will proceed mostly as planned. Uldred, your mages will fight with us." The mother makes a move to speak, but Cailan simply looks at her, and she shuts her mouth. "I will remain here, so as to further develop our strategy, and the Wardens will light the beacon for Loghain's armies to approach."

The mother says, "But how will we explain - ?" Her eyes are wide, staring at Loghain's corpse.

Cailan follows her gaze and says with a bitter twist of his mouth, "Teyrn Loghain is... indisposed. Ser Cauthrien will lead in his stead." He looks up, at the rest of them. "The horde is approaching. They will be here by nightfall, and that is when we'll move. Understood?"

They all nod, still searching for words, and Duncan says quietly, "Understood, Your Majesty."

"You may leave."

Patience recognizes a clear dismissal when she hears it. She does, looking to Duncan, who says, "The day is yours. Make preparations."

They nod, and then they start to make their way back to their camp. It's only halfway through the fortress when she discovers that her hands are shaking and her breathing is too fast. The towers of Ostagar seem to encroach upon her, pressing closer, their shadows lengthening.

 _Nightfall._ Too soon. Tonight, everything changes. She remembers the sadness and the faint horror in Alistair's eyes when it was mentioned, the way he could barely look at her.  _A massacre,_ he said. The horde is approaching, will be here soon. And he has said in the past that things are changing now that people know what's going to happen. That his predictions aren't always correct. Perhaps things will change without Loghain deserting the field, perhaps it will be better. But perhaps it won't. Perhaps she'll die screaming. Perhaps Fergus will. Maybe no-one will know to look for her body, even Alistair. Perhaps he'll be dead somewhere himself. Perhaps...

She's struggling to breathe, certain that  _perhaps_ will drive her mad.

There are steady hands on her shoulders, guiding her to sit down, offering her a waterskin. She takes it, gulping down water. Too fast. She feels sick, her stomach roiling.

"Patience? Are you with me?"

He's crouching in front of her, his eyes concerned, and Maker, those eyes... Alistair.

That thought brings with it a new nervousness, a new speeding of the heart, but it's... manageable. Less unpleasant. She's beginning to calm, her hands steadying.

"Was it... was it Loghain?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "The battle," she manages to say. Or gasp. She still isn't entirely coherent. "It's... We'll die."

He looks worried at that, but it seems less like it's as that thought and more about her. He leans forwards, cups her face between his hands and says, "Patience, that's not true. You don't know that."

Her mind is still spinning, but it's beginning to slow. "Tell me  _you_ know we'll live."

His gaze skitters away from her, his face turning impossibly sad, and his hands fall from her face. "I... I can't."

"What if - what if so much has changed that we die? Or, or the Wardens win, but we still die?"

"I don't know. All we can do is hope for the best. And  _do_ our best."

"But the thought of... It's stupid, but I didn't understand. I thought we had more time, I thought maybe I could tell you - " Maker, no. She didn't mean to say that.

He frowns. "Tell me what?" When she stays silent, he presses, "Tell me what?"

She could lie. After all, if they were never - But he called her  _beautiful,_ and sometimes there's something in his eyes and she wonders - half of her wonders if the reason they were only friends is that perhaps neither of them asked, or tried, or... And they might die tonight. If he doesn't care for her, then it will only be a few hours of awkwardness before they die, or before he is sent somewhere else, maybe with the king, because they'll think that he's  _useful._  She doubts that there’s anything there, but she needs to  _know..._ She can’t help it.

"If I'm wrong, I'm sorry," she says. She takes his face in her hands, as softly as she can, and kisses him.

It’s not as gentle as she’d like it to be, too much of a collision, but her mouth touches his.

There’s a surprised, half-frozen moment where he stills, inhaling a breath. He draws back, just staring at her. He seems more than a little stunned. "Patience? I..."

She pauses, ready to apologize and do her best to pretend this embarrassment hasn’t happened. And then she feels him touch her shoulder, slide his hand up to cup the back of her neck, his touch hesitant but gaining certainty. She thought he didn’t _want –_

Her thoughts are halted when he tilts his head and kisses her in return, soft and a little nervous, his lips barely moving under hers. It feels... good, more than and different from the half-joke she once shared with Rory. It’s... Well, it’s almost familiar. It’s sweet, simple. It's like he's shy about it, and that - that makes her think that this  _is_ familiar; she knows this. She knows his kiss and his touch.

(Hands on her skin and half-remembered dreams.)

It's familiar, and it's suddenly not nearly  _enough_. She finds herself responding, chasing and deepening the kiss, pressing further. He answers rather than pushes, shifting closer, kissing her with a similar fervour.

(Kisses like this shared at the edge of camp, in tents, in an estate, past chaste and threatening to tip into something deeper, more desperate...)

She knows suddenly that she has missed this: missed the feeling of him holding her, missed his mouth and his skin. She’s  _needed_  this. It seems natural, as simple as breathing, to kiss him. She pauses to draw breath, but that involves  _not_ kissing him, which all of a sudden seems such a shame that she presses her lips back to his, continuing where they left off.

( _I’ve come to... care about you. A great deal.)_

He pulls her to him - urgently, like he, too, needs this, his hand in her hair.

( _So I fooled you, did I?)_

She runs her hands down his shoulders, his arms. As if feeling the breadth of him, making sure he’s still with her.

(The nearly reverent way he touched her after the close call in the Deep Roads; the terror in his eyes.)

His hand is warm on her back, an echo of so many touches she barely remembers, and he strokes her cheek, her jaw, gentle even with the hard press of his lips.

( _And I love you. Always._ )

Somewhere amidst the stream of memories and sensations, she pauses, and she finally has time to  _think;_  to stop and realize... 

She wondered why nothing ever happened between them, and now she has her answer. Something did.  _Everything_  did. The presumed intimacy, his care for her - Maker, she's a fool. And the odd dream that left her red-cheeked and awkward around him - perhaps that wasn't simply a dream, but a memory. The details that so eluded her on the day begin to come back to her, and she knows, all of a sudden: a memory of... of them in bed together. She recalls the way he cradled her face and the hope in his eyes when he asked,  _You remember me?_

She wrenches herself away from him, and he looks at her in confusion.

 _She was my best friend,_  Patience remembers him saying.Yes, but she was plenty more besides.

Still flushed and trembling, trying in vain to arrange her thoughts, she asks, "Why did you lie to me?"


	17. Ostagar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin, pretty much. Things get even more AU.

"I didn't..." He stumbles, searches for words. "Patience, I can explain."

It's too much. The way he's looking at her, this sudden onslaught of new knowledge, the way she can still remember how it felt this time, so many other times... It's all too much.

"I'm sure you can," she manages, "but I doubt I can listen." 

She asked the question, but suddenly she can't bear to wait for the answer, to pretend she's perfectly calm when everything in her is alight, terrified and... and there’s something else, something she can’t quite place. Maker, what this man does to her; she's never been so confused in her life. She needs to be anywhere else; somewhere without the weight of his gaze and the memories so fresh in her mind. She's turning and walking away, half-unaware of it, letting her feet take over rather than her mind. Her mind is still overly preoccupied with him, with all of it.

She hears him take a few steps and protest, "Patience, please - "

She can’t. She can't do this. She runs, heedless of where her feet are taking her, until she realizes she’s back at the camp. Smith is sitting next to her pack, and he whines when he sees the look on her face. It’s too much to explain; she just runs a hand over his head in reassurance, then takes her things and keeps walking. There’s a battle to prepare for, after all.

She ends up sitting by the river she attempted to fish in, making sure she has the weapons and potions she’ll need. She sorts them, packs them away once again, then braids and pins her hair. It can’t be in her way when she’s fighting. It takes far too long; her fingers are clumsy, shaking, and she’s far too distracted.

She doesn't know what to do. Maker, she doesn't know at all. She's angry at him, so angry for all the time wasted, for the fool she's probably made of herself - but it's all so much worse now that she's had a taste. Now that she's kissed him, felt him touch her like she's something precious, she wonders how she's lived so long without it. If this is what it was like for him, if this was what the waiting was like...

It should be easy, simple to ignore him. After all, she is so very furious. However, now she knows... He kissed her, and he’s kissed her many times before. He’s done more than that - he was her first... Well. That thought has her flushing, fighting even more with her hairpins to distract herself. He wants her; he’s wanted her since the start - and it’s very likely that if she simply turned back, if she wanted to kiss him again, he’d let her. He loves her. She remembers him saying it; she remembers the way he looked at her.

It’s not just the touches or the kisses; it’s more. She remembers how she trusted him so quickly, how he’s been the only thing stable in her life even as he’s seemed to turn everything upside-down, how she gravitated towards him. It makes sense: this is the man who patched her up after hard fights, watched her back, held her when the nightmares were bad. Who made her laugh when no-one and nothing else could. This was the man who did, truly, love her. She’s never had that before; never had someone treat her like that, care for her that much. It’s rather a shock.

It was so much simpler when he was something distant and unreachable, when she’d resigned herself to her infatuation being one-sided. Now she knows the truth...

Why would he keep something like this from her? Why would he lie to her about everything, and let her stumble? Let her torture herself?

Half of her wants to simply return to him, to lose herself in the feeling and try to remember all she’s lost, but if he cares for her so, why would he lie? 

She remembers Daveth’s words: _He was doing his fair share of looking too_. The suspicious way Fergus looked at him. The way he called her beautiful, the way he reached out to touch her as if it was instinct. It must have been obvious - obvious to everyone but her.

She’s a fool. She’s an absolute fool.

Her eyes sting suddenly with unshed tears, and she swipes at them with a hand.

She hears someone clear their throat behind her. She knows exactly who it is; every bone in her body is telling her, even before he speaks.

Alistair says, “Usually I’d try to give you some time, but you’re right - we might die tonight. I didn’t want to leave it like this.” Then he comes to sit next to her, slowly, uncertainly. When he speaks, he looks at the river rather than her. “How much do you remember?”

She hesitates, uncertain. It’s hard to speak to him while she’s like this, and she doesn’t know how much exactly, because how can she know what she’s forgotten? But she tries to answer. “So much of what happened during the Blight is gone.

The events are still vague, I don’t... But I remember us. I feel like there are still things missing, but I remember... pieces. The way you used to be with me.”

He sighs, and the silence falls again. Then he says, “I really didn’t mean to hurt you. I... I wanted to tell you, but I also thought - ” He rubs at his forehead, scrubs a hand across his face. “I didn’t want to pressure you into anything you didn’t want, or make you pity me, or... To tell you the truth, I half-wondered if it was all the hardship and the death during the Blight that... forced us together, made someone like you look twice at someone like me. I thought maybe your life would be better without me in it, and if you weren’t interested, that was that decided.”

“’Someone like me’?” she echoes, numbly. “What, the noble’s daughter? The cushioned little Cousland sister?”

Now he is looking at her, and he shakes his head. “Not what I meant. I remember... we’d been travelling a few months together, and all I could think was, ‘I’ve never met anyone like her.’ Brave, willing to step in front of a sword for the people you loved, beautiful... If you saw a good turn, or, or a kitten that needed rescuing from a tree, you’d do it. And then probably say something funny afterwards. Do you remember what I told you? About you being something bright in all that darkness?”

She nods, because she does, and she wonders about a long-ago flower; wonders if it ever even grew in this history. She hopes so.

“I meant it. You still are. During the Blight, you made me almost forget about how hideous everything was. I looked at you and I” - a harsh huff of laughter - “actually believed we’d make it. Both of us. Maybe that makes me unforgivably naive, I don’t know... But I look at you and I still see that woman. I still believe.”

The silence stretches between them as she considers what he’s said, and she can hear him fidgeting. She wonders if he’s regretting his words. 

After a few moments, she asks him, “Someone like you?”

He looks at her in surprise at the apparent non-sequitur, but says nothing more.

She elaborates, “You compared ‘someone like me’ to ‘someone like you,’ as if you were... lacking something. I don’t understand why. When you wandered into my life, this life... Once I was quite finished thinking you were a madman, I didn’t know what to make of you. I’d never met anyone like you either, and I was at a loss. There was... Some interesting, funny, very attractive man had just stumbled into my garden and saved my entire family, even with all of us plainly thinking he was Fade-touched, because it was the right thing to do. A Grey Warden. Someone who treated me like I was... worth listening to. So no, perhaps it wasn’t simply the Blight that made me look.”

He stares at her, and he opens his mouth, but she interrupts.

“I’ve spent days - very probably weeks - thinking I was a fool over some man who was plainly not interested. If you’d simply told me...”

Now he’s glaring. “Please, tell me how I should have started that conversation. ‘Hello, I’m Alistair, have I mentioned you were my first love and I still trip over my own feet when I look at you’?”

“You do?” she asks, her voice soft.

“It’s pretty embarrassing, but yes, I do.”

She can’t help herself; she’s smiling before she quite realizes it. He does that to her.

“And you can stop looking so flattered, because it’s terrible. I half-wonder whether the darkspawn are going to start laughing at me. Like you are now, actually.”

“I...” She stifles a laugh with her hand. “I believe you.” Then the moment is gone, and she’s looking at him, sombre, still. “I do believe you.” After all, why would anyone put themselves through this mess if they didn’t have to? The waiting, the lying. “I’m just not certain... It’s a lot to try and - and understand.”

He nods, pursing his lips, once again unable to look at her. “Mm. I thought it might be. That was exactly why I didn’t tell you.” He sighs, rubs again at his face.

They sit there a few seconds longer in the silence, then there are calls from around the camp. She hears Kean come into their small camp and go, “Oi, lovebirds! Final preparations for battle. Other Wardens need you.”

The mockery would have made her blush and stumble before, but now she knows the truth of it... She looks at Alistair, he looks at her, and there is a thick moment before he turns his head and calls back, “Alright, alright. We get the message.” He climbs to his feet and offers her a hand.

She takes it, trying not to think of the contact, only of the mission ahead.

They reach the main fire quickly enough. Duncan and the rest of the Wardens are waiting. She looks around and realizes just how few there are; she can suddenly see how so much of the order could be lost in one battle.

Once she and Alistair arrive - shifting awkwardly next to each other, pretending not to be too aware of the space between them - Duncan begins. “You were originally to be on the front lines with the king. However, it seems he has elected to stay behind to aid with strategy and guarding the main camp. Even so, everything else will continue as planned.”

He lays out the plan, and - of course; she knows what he will say a moment before he does - he gives her and Alistair the job of lighting the beacon. It’s an important job, but it will take them far from the front lines. 

She looks to Alistair, waiting for his protests, remembering his unhappiness at the prospect, but he simply nods, quiet, resigned. 

She thought there would be another opportunity to speak, to try and sort out this mess, but somehow it doesn’t come, even after they’ve been told the main strategy and left to their own devices. He walks away to check over his weapons, his armour, and she can’t make herself follow him. 

She ends up with the rest of the Wardens. They joke about the ugliness of the darkspawn, about how one shouldn’t go into battle drunk but how it’s certainly tempting. She tries to keep up with the conversation, to seem as calm as the rest of them.

Kean sidles over to her. He looks at her, then at Alistair, who’s too many yards away, working with the sort of intense focus that’s designed to make others feel unwelcome. He says, “Ouch. Thought you two were stuck to each other. Lovers’ tiff?”

It’s clearly a joke, but Patience can’t even muster a smile.

He whistles, low and under his breath. “That bad?”

She tries, “It’s not - “ With all that’s happened, it’s not like that seems too much of a lie. Instead, she says, “Not quite.”

He tugs at his ear, grimacing. “Stupid of me, but I thought you two might have finally sorted it out.” When she stares at him, he shrugs. “Whatever weird thing you have together... it seems to work pretty well. I mean, he’s clearly head-over-heels for you. But maybe I’m wrong. None of my business, anyway.” With another shrug, his eyes dart to her weapons. “That’s a pretty nice dagger you have there. New?”

She’s relieved at the subject change, even of she can’t help but think over Kean’s words. She smiles at him. “Quite the opposite. An heirloom.”

* * *

 

The call to the front lines comes sooner than they expected. The Wardens are running to the battleground, and she’s left with Alistair. For a few seconds there’s the sound of a whetstone on steel, then he’s standing, looking over his sword quickly, and sheathing it. He walks over to her and nods to the east. “Come on.”

She follows him obediently, the two of them falling into step together like... well, like it’s something they’re used to doing. They likely are; they travelled together for a year, after all.

She can’t help it: she asks, “What happened at the Tower? The last time we did this, I mean.”

His mouth twists, and he keeps his eyes on the path ahead as he says, “It didn’t go well. We were overrun by darkspawn. Morrigan and her mother saved us.”

“I remember...” She falters. “I remember waking up after the battle, in her hut. But before that... Things are a blur.”

“For me, too. I don’t remember much after the beacon was lit. I was a little busy dying.”

If that’s his idea of a joke - She glares at him, but he’s still paying little attention to her, his focus wholly on their mission, his face grim. The thought of it upsets her, perhaps far too much. She imagines her life without him in it, and it seems less bright, somehow. It’s not an idea she enjoys entertaining.

They get most of the way to the Tower only to hear that it’s been taken by darkspawn. A soldier and a mage elect to accompany them, despite the danger. She tenses, trying to ready herself for battling the twisted things again, and then...

And then it’s happening. Darkspawn swarm around them, and even with the reassurance of knowing she’s immune to the Taint, she shrinks from them. Everything in her revolts at the sight of them, nausea rising in her throat; they’re too human and too alien at once - wrong, somehow.

She wades through them, leaving a trail of blood and carnage in her wake. It seems to come to her far too easily now, and she wonders what’s changed. The thought unsettles her.

She’s finishing off the last hurlock, twisting a dagger in its chest, when there’s a shout behind her. She turns, seeing a second hurlock bearing down on her, sword in its hand -

Someone pulls her back, steps in front of her, and she know from that simple action that it’s Alistair. She hears him grunt as it gets past his guard, but then he’s pushing forwards, meeting it with his shield. The fight is a quick one, and he runs it through without a word - fast, businesslike.

He turns to her, sheathing his sword. Concern is in his eyes, and it’s the first glimpse she’s had of the man she knows since their conversation by the river. “Did it get to you?”

She shakes her head, and she’s about to keep moving when she sees the blood. She presses a hand to his side before she can stop herself, stepping into his space to try and examine the wound. His armour makes it nearly impossible. “You’re hurt. Was that - ?” She already knows: it’s when he stepped in to protect her. “Why did you do that? You could have been...”

He’s gritting his teeth against the pain. “I’ll live. I had my shield. It would have killed you before you’d known.”

She stares at him, wondering how he can be so calm about such things, but he just looks back at her, steady, stubborn. She manages, “Well, I... Thank you.” She means it.

He nods, still so terribly calm, and she suddenly wonders what she’d do without him. She remembers him doing things like this during the Blight, always so certain, so unafraid of it.

There’s a clearing of a throat behind them, and then the mage says, “I could help with that.” He steps forward, and Patience moves aside to let him examine the wound. There’s a mutter, the light of healing magic, and then she can no longer smell fresh blood.

Alistair straightens, looking considerably more comfortable, and nods to the mage. “Thank you.” He looks back to the Tower of Ishal. “But we’ve still got work to do.”

It’s a slow, difficult journey, but they make it to the top of the tower.

Waiting for them is something huge, and there is the sound of... crunching. She gags at the sound, at the smell of human death all around them. Then the... ogre - yes, that’s what it is, and she remembers others like it - throws the corpse aside and advances on them.

She recalls the way she froze in terror during her first darkspawn fight. No, she can’t afford to do that again. Not if she wants to live. So she moves.

The others are stronger, louder, a good distraction. The distraction she needs. She gets around the back of the creature, backing away, too aware that if it steps on her, she will most certainly die. 

She sees Alistair glance at her, surprised, anxious, but she shakes her head and nods towards the creature. Keep going. He evidently understands, for he does, but she can see that he’s deeply unhappy about it.

She jumps, clinging on to the ogre’s... armour? And then she begins to climb, her knuckles white, gripping tightly.

She is halfway up its back when it realizes what is happening. It tries to shake her off, reaching around to dislodge her. She clings, her legs kicking, quite certain she will soon die... but soon the others are stabbing, slashing, throwing fireballs, and it focuses on them again.

It’s the opening she needs. She jumps, making it to its shoulders. She climbs to wrap her legs around its neck, gripping its great, twisting horns and gets a dagger in her hands. Then she braces herself and stabs into the ogre’s eye, ignoring its screaming roar. She twists, presses deeper. The damn thing must have a brain, after all.

She feels it tense, stop moving. Feels it fall.

Oh, _fuck_.

She accounted for this, but it’s still frightening. The ground rushes up to meet her all too fast, but she’s certain she can make it without too bad a landing - she jumps.

The ground hits her hard, and it drags an undignified “oof” out of her, but between her armour, the lack of height and the way she landed, it could be far worse. She’ll have some bruises, but nothing’s broken.

She hears someone come to stand beside her, then Alistair’s offering a hand and asking, “All right?”

She nods. “I think so.” It comes out as more of a gasp; she’s still winded. Even so, she manages to climb to her feet, and fixes her gaze on the firewood for the beacon. She looks past him, to their companion. “I... Excuse me. Mage. Are you able to - ?” She makes an awkward gesture towards the fire.

The mage is still grinning, seeming relieved at the ogre’s death, but he focuses quickly, lighting the beacon with a wave of his hand. It flares to life.

All of a sudden, she remembers what happened last time. Seeing the reinforcements retreat, the massacre. She runs to a window, looking out over the battlefield - and then she laughs, deep and from her chest, unable to help herself.

“What?” she hears Alistair ask behind her.

“They’re marching.” She turns to grin at him. “Alistair, look.”

He takes a hesitant step forwards, another, until he’s practically jogging to the window, still with disbelief on his face. He looks out, frowning. “But there’s... They’re holding their own. The Wardens, they’re - we’ve barely lost anyone.” The hint of a smile creeps onto his face, widening by the second, his previous terseness seeming to leave him.

They look at each other, and she feels it: the pull, the awareness. How easy it would be to just reach over and kiss him, wrap her arms around him. With the way he’s looking at her, he feels it too, she can tell.

But there’s more to do. She remembers an ambush. She turns, and as the door bursts open, her hands fall to her daggers...

Rather than darkspawn, what greets them is a woman. A very human, very bored woman. Morrigan says, “I hear the plan is different this time. It would help if I could remember what the last plan was, but since my memory, too, has been...” She grimaces. “...toyed with, I have no such luxury.” She walks over to them, ignoring completely the mage and the soldier who have helped them thus far. “Prepare yourselves. Mother will be along shortly. As will the darkspawn.”

Patience looks to Alistair and says, “I don’t remember this.”

He’s still frowning at Morrigan. “That’s because it didn’t happen this way. Not last time. Why has your mother changed her plan?”

Morrigan sighs. “It seems that now you know of her... abilities, she feels no need to hide. And the tide of history has changed. This battle ends differently. Or so she tells me.” 

He’s still watching her. “You really don’t remember, do you?” A grin steals onto his face. “Oh, this is priceless. I know more than you do. Try lording this one over me.”

With a sniff, Morrigan replies, “In this matter, perhaps. In all others, you know very little. Mother has told me enough. For instance, have you told your fellow Warden of your father?”

His... father? Patience looks to him in confusion, but he’s busy glaring at Morrigan. “You say one word about that to her, and I’ll...”

It’s then, of course, that the darkspawn arrive, bursting through the door. She draws her daggers, the outcome of this fight suddenly returning to her. They were outnumbered, they were dying, they only made it because of Morrigan and her mother - 

There is a roar, and then the wall next to them crumbles. A great claw emerges from it, pulling apart stone, pulling away most of the roof, and then a dragon steps into the room.

“Ah,” Morrigan says, quite calmly. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Patience fights the urge to simply stare at the dragon, but more darkspawn are filling the room and there’s no time to stop.

She remembers looking at so many darkspawn and being terrified - but with a dragon next to them, one making no move to attack them and instead swatting aside darkspawn, tearing and rending with almost an air of impatience, it’s a battle that’s easily won.

They stand, exhausted, in the silent aftermath. The mage and the soldier are next to them, improbably alive, and they stare at the dragon in a sort of mixed fear and admiration. Then it is... shrinking, changing, until before them stands a woman. Flemeth, but not the Flemeth they saw before. She stands tall, proud, dressed in strange, foreign leathers, and those familiar golden eyes are bright with amusement. 

“Not bad,” she remarks to Patience and Alistair. “Perhaps there’s a reason you managed to stop the Blight after all.” She cocks her head, considering. “Though I’m sure it’s easier without darkspawn overrunning the rest of the fortress.”

Morrigan chips in, “The army have pushed back the others outside. I took the liberty of blocking the tunnel under Ishal, as well. It was but a simple matter.”

Patience hears Alistair inhale next to her. He looks at them in surprise, seeming to deflate. “Does that mean... have we won?”

Flemeth’s amusement hasn’t faded. “That depends on your definition of winning. It came at a cost. But your mentor is alive, as are the King and most of the Wardens. Much of the horde is dead.”

“And the Archdemon?”

“Still alive. It appears to have escaped, as did the remainder of the darkspawn.”

Something changes in his face, appears on it - fear, mixed with a kind of resignation, and a deep sadness. He looks bereft; Patience can find no better word.

Flemeth just raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t worry. I somehow doubt that will be your concern this time.”

“What do you - ?”

“Later, boy. For now, you should celebrate.” She grins, though there’s something wry and dark in it. “Ostagar, a great victory. Imagine that.”

“Wait,” he says, “I need to know - “

But she’s changing again, as is Morrigan, and two ravens fly through the destroyed roof of the Tower before he can finish.

He sighs, sagging, and mutters something that sounds like, “Why can’t anyone give me a straight answer?”

* * *

 

They make their way back to camp, finishing off a few darkspawn stragglers on the way. His previous cheer seems to have deserted him, and he’s quiet on the journey. 

She knows enough to realize that Alistair being silent is a bad sign. She tries, “Are you all right?”

He doesn’t look at her, just says, “I will be.” He makes no move to continue talking, and she doesn’t want to pry.

When they reach the camp, Wardens and soldiers are still filing in. They’re slumped, exhausted, and though it was apparently a victory, they barely speak. She supposes many of them will still have had to watch friends die; wars don’t come without casualties, after all.

Patience can’t help but ask a passing soldier, “What happened?”

He looks up as if he’s surprised at the question, then he replies, “We got most of them. Some fled with the...” He stumbles over the words, and his eyes fill with fear. “...the dragon.”

“Thank you,” she says, and then, “I’m sorry.”

He nods, continuing onwards.

She and Alistair reach their silent, separate camp, at which point Alistair begins to walk away, says, “I should go. There’s a lot to do, and I should...”

He’s been behaving strangely since - well, since by the river, and she can’t take any more of it. She has to wonder what she’s done wrong. Instead of allowing it, she blurts, “Wait.”

He pauses, turns to her.

“What -” She clears her throat and tries again. “You’ve been avoiding me. Is there any reason why?”

He can’t look at her. He stops, seems to consider lying or avoiding the question, then says, “I can’t - I was afraid of being rejected the first time. Having it happen now, after everything... I might need some time as well. I can understand why, it’s not exactly easy to take in, but I - I can’t be around you with this stupid, vain hope and...” He sighs. “I need some time alone. Please.”

She remembers her words at the river, her uncertainty. “You thought I rejected you?”

He frowns. “Didn’t you?”

It’s a lot to say all at once, so she just says, “I must be a mess. I might need some help with my armour, and my... My hair.” She makes to unpin it, and damn her hands. They can function well enough in a fight, but now she needs to be careful, to do simple work, they shake and fail. She mutters, “I probably have blood it...”

He still seems surprised, rooted to the spot, but after a moment he manages, “You don’t.” His voice seems calm, but she hears the tremor in it. It’s the first time they’ve been alone since the kiss, and she knows they’re both thinking of it. “But I can help with those. If you want me to.”

“Help me, then.” It’s blunter than she intended, but she can’t stand it anymore: his hesitation, the thickness of the air between them.

She hears his quiet steps, then she feels him reach up to remove them. His voice is quiet, too. “Maybe it’s easier when you aren’t doing it by feel.” His hands are gentle, like always, as he runs them through her hair. His fingers rest briefly on her neck, and that touch, small as it is, makes her shiver. Then it’s gone, and he says, “I remember the first time I did this.”

“So do I.” Her voice is definitely trembling now, and she hates its betrayal.

She remembers. It came back to her a few seconds ago, when he was busy unpinning. (Him behind her, kissing her neck, saying softly, “It’s nice like this.” Returning to her side, curling a lock of hair around his finger and grinning at her.)

She almost shakes her head to rid herself of the memory, to drag herself back to reality. He’s in front of her now, offering her the pins, and she takes them, pocketing them - but with the other hand, she’s reaching before he can step back, taking his fingers and lacing them with hers. She’s done it before, but this time feels braver, somehow. 

She says into the silence, “I don’t remember everything that happened, but I remember how you made me feel.” He just watches her, waiting, and she continues, haltingly, “You made me feel special. As if I was... worthy.” She’s so close to him she can hear him breathing. “You still do.” She takes her hand and runs it over his arm, feeling him tense in surprise. 

He looks at it, then at her, his mouth open as if he wants to say something - then he thinks better of it.

She makes her choice, musters her courage, and tells him quietly, “You know, somewhere in all this death and this darkness, even with the politics, and my prickliness, and the darkspawn, I still found myself coming to... care for you. Very much. And I might be fooling myself, but do you think you might ever... feel the same about me?”

She hears him laugh - quiet, surprised - and then he’s kissing her, and the space between them, the thing that has felt like such an obstacle, is closed. It’s soft, sweet, and she can’t help but remember the man who took her face in shaking hands and kissed her after the mess at the Circle as if he was thanking her for being alive: gentle, slow, as if he was afraid she’d realize what she was doing and pull away. His first kiss.

She’s almost certain that he’s thinking the same thing. He’s smiling as he draws back, running a thumb over her cheek, pressing his forehead to hers. “Maker, I’ve missed that.”

Then she’s smiling as well, and saying, “I have too.” She can’t herself. She adds, so quietly many would miss it, “But I’ve told you, it’s Patience.”

“And here I thought the daft humour was my job.”

She grins at him, and he grins back.

After a moment, he sighs, closing his eyes. “Look, there’s something I should probably tell you. What Morrigan said, about my - my father. And why I needed to see the king. There’s a reason for all that...”


End file.
